
liul 



Qass. 



i-n 



liV 




1EN ALL IS DONE AND SAID." — Page 3. * 



SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 



EDITED BY 



JOHN GEEENLEAF WHITTIER. 



gdu lUbisj^ir (l;bition. 



WITH NUMEROUS ILLUSTRATIONS. 





BOSTON: 
JAMES E. OSGOOD AND COMPANY 

Late Ticknor & Fields, and Fields, Osgood, & Co. 

1877. 






Copyright, 1875. 
By JAMES R. OSGOOD & CO. 



University Press : Welch, Bigelow, & Co., 
Cambridge. 



PREFACE. 



IT would be doing injustice to the compiler of this volume to suppose 
that his work implied any lack of appreciation of tlie excellent antholo- 
gies already published in this country. Dana's "Household Book of Poetry" 
is no misnomer ; and the honored names of Bryant and Emerson are a suf- 
ficient guaranty for "Parnassus" and the "Library of Song." With no 
thought of superseding or even of entering into direct competition with 
these large and valuable collections, it has been my design to gather up in a 
comparatively small volume, easily accessible to all classes of readers, the 
wisest thoughts, rarest fancies, and devoutest hymns of the metrical authors 
of the last three centuries. To use Shelley's definition of poetry, I have en- 
deavored to give something like " a record of the best thoughts and happiest 
moments of the best and happiest minds." The j)lan of my work has com- 
pelled me to confine myself, in a great measure, to the lyrical productions 
of the authors quoted, and to use only the briefer poems of the old drama- 
tists and such voluminous writers as Spenser, Milton, Dryden, Cowper, Pope, 
Byron, Scott, Wordsworth, and the Brownings. Of course, no anthology, 
however ample its extracts, could do justice to the illimitable genius of 
Shakespeare. 

It is possible that it may be thought an undue prominence has been given 
to the poetry of the period beginning with Cowper and reaching down to 
Tennyson and his living contemporaries. But it must be considered that 
the last century has been prolific in song ; and, if Shakespeare and Milton 
still keep their unapproachable position, " souls like stars that dwell apart," 
there can be little doubt that the critical essayist of the twentieth century 
Avill make a large advance upon the present estimate, not only of Cowper 
and Burns, but of Wordsworth, Coleridge, Shelley, Keats, Browning, Ten- 
nyson, and Emerson. 

It will be seen that the middle of the sixteenth century is the earliest date 
of my citations. The great name of Chaucer does not appear ; and some of 
the best of the early ballad poetry of England and Scotland has been reluc- 



IV PREFACE. 

tantly omitted. James I., whose Queen's Quhair has hidden his kingly 
crown under the poet's garland, William Dunbar, and Sackville, Earl of 
Dorset, may well be thought worthy of a place in any collection of English 
verse, but the language and rhythm of these writers render them wellnigh 
unintelligible to the ordinary reader. 

The selections I have made indicate, in a general way, my preferences ; 
but I have not felt at liberty to oppose my own judgment or prejudice to 
the best critical authorities, or to attempt a reversal of the verdicts of Time. 
It would be too much to hope that I have, in all cases, made the best possi- 
ble exposition of an author's productions. Judging from my own experi- 
ence in looking over selected poems, I cannot doubt that my readers will 
often have occasion to question the wisdom of my choice, and regret the 
omission of favorite pieces. It is rarely that persons of equal capacity for 
right judging can be found to coincide entirely in regard to the merits of a 
particular poem. The canons of criticism are by no means fixed and infalli- 
ble ; and the fashion of poetry, like that of the world, " passeth away." 
Not only every age, but every reader, holds the right of private judgment. 
It would be difficult for any literary inquisitor-general to render a good 
reason for condemning as a heretic the man who finds the " Castle of Indo- 
lence " pleasanter reading than the " Faerie Queene," who prefers Covvper to 
Dryden, Scott to Byron, and Shelley to Scott, who passes by Moore's " Lalla 
Eookh " to take up Clough's " Bothie of Tober-na Vuolich," who thinks 
Emerson's " Threnody " better than Milton's " Lycidas," and who would 
not exchange a good old ballad or a song of Burns for the stateliest of 
epics. 

The considerable space which I have given to American authors will, I 
trust, find its justification in the citations from their writings. The poetical 
literature of our country can scarcely be said to have a longer date than that 
of a single generation. As a matter of fact, the very fathers of it are still 
living. It really commenced with Bryant's " Thanatopsis " and Dana's 
" Buccaneer." The grave, philosophic tone, chaste simplicity of language, 
freedom of versification, and freshness and truth of illustration, which 
marked the former poem, and the terse realism of the " Buccaneer," with 
its stern pictures of life and nature drawn with few strokes sharp and 
vigorous as those of Retzsch's outlines, left the weak imitators of an artificial 
school without an audience. All further attempts to colonize the hills and 
pastures of New England from old mythologies were abandoned ; our boys 
and girls no longer figured in impossible pastorals. If we have no longer 
ambitious Columbiads and Conquests of Canaan, we have at least truth and 
nature, Avit and wisdom, in Bryant's " Robert of Lincoln," Emerson's " Hum- 
blebee," Lowell's " Courtin'," and " The One-Hoss Shay " of Holmes. 

In dealing with contemporary writers I have found myself embarrassed by 



PKEFACE. V 

the very large number of really noticeable poems, many of which, although 
in my own estimation vastly better than those of some of the old versifiers 
whose age and general reputation have secured them a place in this volume, 
I have been compelled to omit solely from lack of space. The future gleaner 
in the fields over which I have passed will doubtless find many an ungar- 
nered sheaf quite as well worth preserving as these I have gathered within 
the scanty limits of my compendium. The rare humorists of our time, espe- 
cially such poets as Holmes alid Lowell, can be only partially represented 
in these necessarily brief selections. 

It may be observed that the three divisions of the book do not strictly 
correspond to the headings which indicate them, — the first, for instance, 
beginning before Shakespeare and ending somewhat after Milton. It is dif- 
ficult to be quite exact in such classifications ; and as it seemed desirable to 
make their number as small as possible, I trust the few leading names men- 
tioned may serve to characterize the periods they accompany with a suffi- 
cient degree of accuracy. Pope was doubtless the great master of what is 
sometimes spoken of as artificial verse, shaping the mould of poetic thought 
for his own and the succeeding generation ; but as Dryden stands in point 
of time nearer to the colossal name which closes the first period of English 
song, he has been chosen as a representative of the second, in connection and 
contrast with Burns, who, in his vigorous rebound from the measured pomp 
of rhym'ed heroics to the sturdiest and homeliest Scottish simplicity, gave to 
the modern lyric its inspiration, striking for the age the musical pitch of 
true and tender emotion, as decidedly as Wordsworth has touched for it the 
key-note of the thoughtful harmonies of natural and intellectual beauty. 
Tennyson undoubtedly stands at the head of all living singers, and his name 
might well serve as the high-water mark of modem verse ; but as our vol- 
ume gives a liberal space to American authorship, I have ventured to let 
the name of the author of "Evangeline" represent, as it well may, the 
present poetic cidture of our English-speaking people at home and abroad. 

While )jy no means holding myself to a strict responsibility as regards the 
sentiment and language of the poems which make up this volume, and while 
I must confess to a large tolerance of personal individuality manifesting it- 
self in widely varying forms of expression, I have still somewhat scrui)U- 
lously endeavored to avoid in my selections everything which seemed lial)le 
to the charge of irreverence or questionable morality. In this respect the 
poetry of the last quarter of a century, with a few exceptions, has been note- 
worthy for purity of thought and language, as well as for earnestness and re- 
ligious feeling. The Muse of our time is a free but profoundly reverent 
inquirer ; it is rarely found in " the seat of the scorner." If it does not 
always speak in the prescribed language of creed and formula, its utterances 
often give evidence of fresh communion with that Eternal Spirit whose 



VI PREFACE. 

responses are never in any age or cliine withheld from the devout ques- 
tioner. 

My great effort has been to make a thoroughly readable book. With 
this in view I have not given tedious extracts from dull plays and weary 
epics, but have gathered up the best of the old ballads and short, time- 
approved poems, and drawn largely from contemporary writers and the 
waifs and estrays of imknown authors. I have also, as a specialty of the 
work, made a careful selection of the best hymns in our language. I am 
prepared to find my method open to criticism from some quarters, but I 
have catered not so much for the scholarly few as for the great mass of 
readers to whose " snatched leisure " my brief lyrical selections would seem 
to have a special adaptation. 

It only remains for me to acknowledge the valuable suggestions and aid 
I have received from various sources during the preparation of this volvime, 
and especially the essential assistance I have had from LucV Larcom of 
Beverly Farms, to whose services I have before been indebted in the com- 
pilation of " Child Life." 

J. G. W. 

Amesbury, 9th mo., 1875. 



CONTENTS 



FROM. SHAKESPEARE TO 

Thought 

Majesty of God 

No Age content with his own Estate , . 

Pleasure mixed with Pain 

A Description of such a one as he avould love 
The Passionate Shepherd to his Love . . 

The Nymph's Reply 

The Pilgrim 

The Soul's Errand 

Sonnets 

Lament for Astrophel (Sir Philip Sidney) 

Angelic Ministry . 

The True Woman 

From the Epithalamium 

Una and the Lion 

The House of Riches 

The Bower of Bliss 

Content and Rich 

A Summer's Day 

The Soul 

Contentment 

The Lessons of Nature 

To his Mistress, the Queen of Bohemia 

The Good Man 

Revenge of Injuries 

From an Epistle to the Countess of Cumber- 
land 

My Mind to me a Kingdom is 

Songs : 

Ariel's Song 

The Fairy to Puck 



MILTON. 

Page 
Lord Thomas Vaux 
Thomas Sternhold 
H. Howard, Earl of Surrey 
Sir Thomas IVyalt 



Christopher Marlowe 
Sir Walter Raleigh 



Sir Philip Sidney 
Matthew Roy don . 
Edmund Spenser . 



Robert Southwell 
Alexander Htoms 
Sir John Davies 
Thomas Nash . 
William Drummond 
Sir Henry Wotton 



Lady Elizabeth Carew 



Samuel Daniel . 
William Byrd . . 

William Sliakesjjeare 



Vlll 



CONTENTS. 



Amiens's Song 

A Sea Dirge 

Hark ! hark ! the Lark ! 

Under the Greenwood-Tree . . . , 

Dirge for Fidele 

Sonnets 

The Noble Nature 

Song of Hesperus 

On Lucy, Countess of Bedford . . . . 

The Sweet Neglect 

How NEAR to Good is what is Fair ! . . 

Epitaph on Elizabeth L. H 

Love will find out the Way . . . . 

May-Day Song 

Begone Dull Care ! 

Farewell to the Fairies 

Robin Goodfellow 

Edom o' Gordon 

Take thy Auld Cloak about thee . . . 

The Barring o' the Door 

He that loves a Rosy Cheek. . . . . . 

The Sirens' Song 

Song 

Fair and Unavorthy 

Music 

Good-Morrow 

Search after God 

Sic Vita 

Elegy 

I 'll never love thee more 

Death the Leveller 

Celinda 

Evening Hymn 

Wishes 

To Althea 

To Lucasta 

To Daffodils 

To Blossoms 

To keep a true Lent 

Virtue 

The Flower 

Rest 

The Bird 

They are all gone 

For one that hears himself much praised 



William SliuJccspcarc 



Ben Jonson 



Unknoivn 



JjisJio]) Richard Corhett 
Unknown . . 



Tliomas Carew . 
William Browne 

Sir Robert Ayton . 
William Strode . 
Thomas Heyivood 

Henry King . 

Marquis of Montrose 
James Shirley 
E. Herbert {Earl of Cher 
Sir Thomas Broicne 
Richard Crashatv 
Sir Richard Lovelace 



Robert Herrick 



George Herbert 



Henry Vaiighan 
George Wither 



bury) 



CONTENTS. 



Companionship of the Muse George Wither 

Thoughts in a Garden Andrew Marvell 

The Bermudas " " 

Hymn on the Nativity John Milfoii . 

Sonnets : 
On arriving at the Age of twenty-three " " 

On his Blindness " " 

Prayer Thomas Elwood 

Kesignation Richard Baxter 

In Prison Sir Roger L Estrange 

Old Age and Death Edmund Waller 

Of Myself Abraham CowJcy 

Liberty " " 



FROM DRYDEN TO BURNS. 



Song for Saint Cecilia's Day, 1687 
Under Milton's Picture . . . . 
Character of a Good Parson . . . 

Reason 

Morning Hymn 

Hymn 

Paraphrase of Psalm XXIII. . . . 

The Universal Prayer 

Happiness 

Song 



The Painter who pleased Nobody and Every- 
body 

Careless Content 

From the "Castle of Indolence" . . . . 
A Hymn 



Grongar Hill 

The Braes of Yarrow 

The Heavenly Land 

Y^'e Golden Lamps of Heaven, farewell ! . 

Jesus, Lover of my Soul 

Love Divine, all Love excelling .... 

On the Death of Dr. Levett 

The Schoolmistress 

Elegy written in a Country Churchyard . 
Ode on a Distant Prospect of Eton College 

Dirge in Cymbeline 

Ode to Evening 

The Chameleon 

From "The Deserted Village" 



John Dryden 



Thomas Ken . . 
Josci:)h Addison . 

Alexander Po^k . 

Allan Ramsay 

John Gay . . . 
John Byrom . . 
James Thomson . 

John Dyer . . . 
William Hamilton 
Isaac Watts . . 
Philip Doddridge 
Charles Wesley . 
Augustus M. Toplady 
Samuel Johnson . 
William Slienstone 
Thomas Gray . . 

William Collins . 

James Merrick . 
Oliver Goldsmith . 



CONTENTS. 



The Friar of Orders Gray Thomas Percy 

Loss OF THE Royal George William Cowper 

Lines to my Mother's Picture " " 

Mysteries of Providence " " 

The Mariner's Wife William Julius Mickle 

The Hermit James Beattic . . 

The Dead John Langhorne . 

The Three "Warnings Mrs. Thrale . . 

The Sabbath of the Soul Anna L. Barhauld 

The Death of the Virtuous " " 

Life " " 

What ails this Heart o' mine? Susanna Blamire 

To THE Cuckoo Jb/m Logan . . 

Yarrow Stream " " . , 

Bonnie George Campbell Unknoiun . . . 

Waly, waly, but love be Bonny .... " ... 

Lady Mary Ann " ... 

The Boatie rows " ... 

Glenlogie " ... 

John Davidson " ... 

Had 1 A Heart for Falsehood framed . . Buchard B. Sheridan 

The Minstrel's Song in Ella Thomas Chattcrton 

Isaac Ashford ■ . . . George Crabbc . . 

A Wish Samtiel Bogcrs . 

Italian Song " " 

Of a' the Airts the Wind can blaw . . . Bohert Burns . . 

Mary Morison " " . . 

Highland Mary " " . . 

To Mary in Heaven " " . . 

A Vision " " . . 

A Bard's Epitaph " " . . 

Elegy on Captain Matthew Henderson . . " " . . 

AuLD EoBiN Gray Lady Anne Barnard 

The Tiger. William Blake 

To the Muses " " 

The Gowan glitter.s on the Sward . . . Joanna Baillic 

The Land o' the Leal Lady Caroline Nairn 

The Soldier's Return Robert Bloomfield 

Lament for Flodden Jane Elliott . . 

The Midges dance aboon the Burn . . . Robert TannaJiill 

The Braes o' Balquhither " " 

To THE Lady Anne Hamilton William R. Spencer 

The Dead who have died in the Lord . . James Glassford 

Night and Death Joseph Blanco White 

Ode to an Indian Gold Coin John Leyden . 



CONTENTS. 



"Written after Recovery from a Dangerous 

Illness Sir Humphry Davij 

Cupid grown careful George Croly . . 

To THE Herb Rosemary Hem-i/ Kirke White 

To AN Early Primrose " '« " 

The Star of Bethlehem " " " 

Lines written in Richmond Churchyard, 

Yorkshire Herbert Knoioles . 



FROM WORDSWORTH TO LONGFELLOW. 



Intimations of Immortality 

The Daffodils 

To the Cuckoo 

A Memory 

She was a Phantom of Delight 

Yarrow unvisited 

On a Picture of Peele Castle in a Storm . 

Ode to Duty 

To Sleep 

The World 

To THE River Duddon 

Young Lochinvau 

A Serenade 

Song 

Lay of the Imprisoned Huntsman . . . . 

The Trosachs 

Coronach 

Hymn of the Hebrew Maid 

Christmas-Time 

Genevieve 

Hymn before Sunrise in the Vale of Cha- 

MOUNI 

Christabel 

Stanzas 

The Inchcape Rock 

Brough Bells 

The Housekeeper 

The Old Familiar Faces 

Hester 

When Maggy gangs away 

The Rapture of Kilmeny 

Fly to the Desert 

The Mid Hour of Night 

The Vale of Avoca 



William Wordsivorih 97 
99 
100 
100 
100 
101 
101 
102 
103 
103 
103 
104 
105 
105 
105 
105 
106 
107 
107 

Scumicl Taylor Coleridge 108 



Sir Walter Scott 



Bobcrt Southcy 

Charles Lamb 

James Hogg . 
Thomas Moore 



109 
110 
117 
117 
118 
120 
120 
120 
121 
121 
123 
124 
124 



Xll 



CONTEXTS. 



THOU WHO DRY'sT THE MoTIRNER's TeAR 

Thou art, God ! 

She walks in Beauty 

The Destruction of Sennacherib . . . 

The Lake of Geneva 

Mont Blanc 

The Immortal Mind 

Stanzas written in Dejection near Naples 

To A Skylark 

One "Word is too often profaned . . . 

The Eve of Saint Agnes 

The Common Lot 

Forever with the Lord 

Pray'er 

Whilst Thee I seek 

There was Silence in Heaven .... 

To a bereaved Mother 

Lament 

The Last Man 

Glenara 

Lord TJllin's Daughter 

Hymn to the Flowers 

Address to an Egyptian Mummy . ' . . 

A Ghost at Noon 

Forest Worship 

Corn-Law Hymn 

If thou WERT BY MY SiDE 

Not ours the Vows 

An Angel in the House 

Abou Ben Adhem and the Angel . . . 
A Wet Sheet and a Flowing Sea . . . 
Thou hast sworn by thy God .... 
She 's gane to dwall in Heaven . . . 

The Evening Cloud 

From the Recesses 

Hymn 

The Bucket 

After a Summer Shower 

Mariner's Hymn 

The Soul's Defiance 

0, WHY should the Spirit of Mortal be 

proud ? 

The Jackdaw of Rheims 

My Life is like the Summer Rose . . . 
The Burial of Sir John Moore .... 



Thomas Iloorc .... 
George Gordon{Lm'd Byron) 



Percy Bysslie SheUcy 



John Keats . . , 
JoMics Montcjomery . 



Helen Maria Williams 
Unknown. . . . 
John Quincy Adams 
Walter Savage Landor 
Thomas Campbell 



Horace Smith 
Ehenezcr Elliott 



Reginald Hcher 
Bernard Barton 
Leigh Hunt . . . 

Allan Cunningham 



John Wilson . . 
Sir John Boicring . 

Samuel Woodworth 
Andrews Norton 
Caroline Bowles Southcy 
Lavinia Stoddard . 

William Knox . . 
Richard H. Barham 
Richard Henry Wilde 
Charles Wolfe . . 



CONTENTS. 



Sweet Home John Howard Pa-yne 

The Childe's Destiny Felicia Hcmans . . 

Kindred Hearts " " . . 

Marriage Maria Brooks . . 

May James G. Percival . 

To Seneca Lake " " " 

The Fall of Niagara John G. C. Brainard 

Epithalamium " " " 

The Memory of the Heart .... Daniel JVchster . . 

The American Flag Joseph Rodman Drake 

Passing away John Pierpont . . 

To Congress " " . . 

Jeanie Morrison William Motherwell 

The Song of the Shirt T/iomas Hood . . 

Morning Meditations " " . . 

Song " " . . 

Ruth " " . . 

Hymn of Nature W. B. 0. Peabodij . 



W. A. Muhlenberg. 
Lady Dafferin . . 

JFinthrop M. Praed 

William Leggett 
Edward Coate Pinkney 
F itz- Greene Hallcck 



William Lloyd Garrison 
John Ncal . . 



I WOULD NOT live ALWAY . . . 

The Irish Emigrant 

The Belle of the Ball .... 

Love and Friendship 

A Health 

Burns 

On a Portrait of Red Jacket . 

Sonnet 

Ambition 

Pilgrim Song George Lunt . . . 

The Family Meeting Charles Sj)mgue . 

Our Mary Henry Scoit Riddcll 

The Forging of the Anchor .... Samuel Ferguson . 

The Bells of Shandon Francis Mahony (Fathe. . 

Unseen Spirits Nathaniel Parker Willis 

From Melanie " " «' 

Bingen on the Rhine 

The Sabbath 

Faith 

Hymn 

Labor 

The Present Heaven 

To THE Painted Columbine. . . 

Evening Song 

Morning 

Inward Music ^ << _ 

Saviour ! avhose Mercy Sir Robert Grant 



Caroline Elizabeth Norton 
Edward Lord Lytton 
Frances Anne Kemhle 
John Sterling 
Frances S. Osgood 
Jones Very . 

Thomas Miller . 
John Keble . . 



■out) 



153 
153 
154 
154 

155 
155 
155 
156 
156 
156 
157 
158 
159 
160 
160 
161 
161 
162 
162 
163 
163 
165 
165 
165 
166 
168 
168 
168 
169 
169 
170 
171 
172 
172 
173 
174 
175 
175 
175 
176 
176 
177 
177 
178 
178 



XIV 



CONTENTS. 



Trust Bean of Canterbury ... 179 

A Petition TO Time B.W. Procter {Barrij Cornwall) \7 9 

179 



Fdchard Monckton Milnes 



A Pkayer in Sickness .... 

The Brookside 

The Men of Old 

The Palm and the Pine. . . . 

Tibbie Inglis 

The Departure of the Swallow 

Lucy's Flittin' 

Summer Days Unknown . . 

Losses Frances Browne 

We are Brethren a' Eobert Nicoll 



Alary Howitt . . 
iniliam Howitt 
William Laidlaio 



The Island 

The Pirate ...... 

The Spectre Horse . . , 
To A Waterfowl . . . . 

Thanatopsis 

The Death of the Flowers 
To the Fringed Gentian , 
The Battle-Field . . . , 
From "The Eivulet" 
The Burial of Love . . 

The Sleep 

Bertha in the Lane . . . 
A Musical Instrument . . 

Cowper's Grave 

At the Church Gate . . . 
Mariana 



break, i-^.j-AK 



"Break, 

Memory . 

Doubt .... 

The Larger Hope . .. 

Garden Song .... 

Bugle Song .... 

The Apology ..... 

To Eva 

Thine Eyes still shone 
Each and All . . . 
The Problem .... 
Boston Hymn .... 
The Soul's Prophecy . 

The Bells 

Evelyn Hope .... 
Eabbi Ben Ezra. . . 
The Lost Leader . . 



181 
180 
180 
181 
182 
182 
183 
184 
184 
185 
186 
185 
187 
187 
188 
189 
189 
190 
190 
190 
191 
193 
194 
IVilliam Makepeace Thackeray 195 



Ricliard H. Dana 



William Cullcn Bryan 



Elizabeth Barrett Browning 



Alfred Tennyson 



TMph Waldo Emerson 



Edgar A. Poe . 
Robert Browning 



195 
196 
196 
197 
197 
198 
199 
199 
199 
200 
200 
200 
201 
202 
202 
203 
204 
207 



CONTENTS. 


XV 


Paul Eeveke's Ride Henry W. Longfellow 


. 207 


Maidenhood 








" " " 


. 209 


A Psalm of Life 








. 


. 209 


Resignation 








" 


. 210 


Santa Filomena 








" " " 


. . 211 


Hawthorne 








" 


. 211 


To-day and To-morrow . . . 








Gerald Masscy . . 


. 212 


The Grave by the Lake . . 








John G. IVhitlicr . 


. 212 


My Birthday 








" " 


. 2U 


The Vanishers 








" " 


. 215 


In School-Days 








" " 


. 215 


Laus Deo ! 








" 


. 216 


The Eve of Election. . . . 








" 


. 216 


The Touchstone 








JVilliavi Allinghavi 


. 217 


Small Beginnings 








Charles Mackay . . 


. 218 


Tubal Cain 








" " . . 


. 218 


The Living Temple .... 








Oliver Wendell Unlnu 


s . 219 


Dorothy Q 








<< << 4< 


. 219 


The Voiceless 








.. 


. 220 


Robinson of Leyden .... 








" 


. 221 


The Deacon's Masterpiece . . 








a << .< 


221 


The Chambered Nautilus . . 








<< i< 


. 223 


Under the Violets .... 








» » » 


. 223 


The Heritage 








James TMssell Lowell 


. 224 


New England Spring 








<. 


. 224 


The Couktin' 








u 


. 225 


Ambrose 








<. 


. 226 


After the Burial 








it a << 


. 227 


Commemoration Ode .... 








(£ (. «< 


. 228 


The Alpine Sheep 








Maria ,- hit; Lowell 


. 229 


Campanile de Pisa .... 








Thorriuo W. Parsons 


. 230 


On a Bust of Dante .... 








" 


. 231 


Wishing 








John 0. Saxe . . 


. 232 


Sleep and Death 








" " . . 


. 232 


A STILL Day in Autumn . . . 








Sarah Helen TFhUmai 


I . 233 


The Settler 








Alfred B. Street . 


. 234 


Knowing 








Christopher P. Craneh 


. 234 


Sleepy Hollow 








William E. Channing 


. 235 


From "A Tribute to a Servant' 


• 






Julia Ward Hotve . 


. 235 


Battle Hymn of the Republic 








u 


. 236 


L\spiration 








H. D. Thoreait . . 


. 236 


Milton's Prayer in Blindness 








Elizabeth Lloyd Howcl 


. 237 


The Burial of Moses . . . 








C. F. Alexander . . 


. 237 


Christmas Hymn 








E. H. Sears . . . . 


. 238 


The Way, the Truth, and the Life 




Theodore Parker . . 


. 239 



XVI 



CONTENTS. 



The Will of God 

The Right must -svin 

Seen and Unseen 

All 's well 

Royalty 

The Kingdom of God 

The New Sinai 

From the "Bothie of Tobek-Navuolich ' 

The Stream of Life 

Qua Cursum Ventus 

The Golden Sunset 

Quiet from God 

The Love of God 

Nearer, my God, to Thee 

My Times are in Thy Hand .... 

Cana 

The Inner Calm , 

The Master's Touch 

Up Above 

The other World 

MAY I JOIN the Choir Invisible ! . , 

The Three Fishers 

The Sands of Dee . 

A Myth 

Coming Home 

Too Late 

Outward Bound . . , 

Until Death 

Why thus longing ? 

Woman 

The Chase 

The Lover 

The Shepherd-Boy , 

Death and the Youth 

The Sisters 

Krumley 

The Sure AVitness 

Her last Poem 

Field Preaching 

Nearer Home 

Peace .... 

Keith of Ravelston 

Eventide 

The Iconoclast 

"It is more blessed" 



Frederic William Falter 
Dcvvid A. TFassan . 



Richard Clienevix Tr 
Arthur Hugh Clourjh 



Samuel Loncjfcllou: . 
Unknown .... 
Eliza Scihdder . . 
Sarah F. Adams . 
Anna L. Waring . 
James Freeman Clark 
Hor alius Botuir . 

W. Alexander . . 
Harriet Beecher Stoice 
3frs. Leives (George EL 
Charles Kingslcy 



cnch 



Dinah Mii^ock Craik 



Unknown .... 
Harriet Winslow Seiv 
Coventry Paimore 



Letitia E. Lanclon 

Atcirey De Vere 
Alice Carey . . 



Phchc Carry 



Sydney Dohcll . 
Thomas Bitrh ridge 
Rose Terry Cooke 



lot) 



CONTENTS. 



Love 

Indian Names .... 
Eternal Light .... 

Wordsworth 

The Burial of the Dane 
The Mountains .... 
An Oriental Idyl . . . 
The Voyagers .... 
The Song of the Camp . 
The Poet of To-day . . 
Lady Barbara .... 
The Terrace at Berne . 
Urania 



The Last Word .... 

The Artist 

Bertha 

The Upright Soul . . . 
Lassie ayont the Hill ! 
Hymn for the Mother . 
An Angel's Visit . . . 

After Death 

Weary 



The Sunflower 

Vespers 

Charity 

The Meeting Waters 

When the Grass shall cover me . 

Again 

A Strip of Blue 

By the Fireside 

Down the Slope 

The two Worlds 

Sunlight and Starlight . . . . 
" I WILL abide in thine House " 

Over the River 

Judge not 

Friend Sorrow 

The Closing Scene 

The High Tide on the Coast of 

Lincolnshire 

Seven Times Four 

Seven Times Seven 

Before the Rain 

After the Rain 

Piscataqua Rivee 



Aline C. {Lynch) Botta . . 


. 259 


Lydia H. Sigourney . . . 


260 


William H. Furncss . . 


260 


James T. Fields .... 


. 260 


Henry Howard Brownell . . 


261 


Bayard Taylor 


. 262 


" " 


. 262 





. 262 





263 


S. J. Li2)2nncott (Gh-ace Chxeimoc 


rf)263 


Alexander Smith . .■ . . 


264 


Matthew Arnold .... 


. 265 


.... 


. 266 


" " .... 


. 266 


Robert Lord Lylton .... 


266 


Anne Whitney 


268 


J. H. Perkins 


269 


George Macdonald .... 


270 


" " .... 


270 


Eliza Simat Turner . . . 


271 


Christina Eossctti .... 


272 


" " .... 


272 


Dora Greenwell 


272 





273 


Elizabeth H. Whitticr . . . 


273 


" "... 


273 


Unhioivn 


273 





274 


Luey Larcom 


274 


" <' 


275 


Charlotte P. Heaves . . . 


276 


Unknown 


276 


Adeline B. T. Whitney . . 


277 
277 
277 


Nancy A. W. Priest . . . 


Adelaide A. Procter . . . 


278 
278 
279 


Thomas BucJuman Pcad . . 


Jean Lngelow 


280 


" " 


282 


« " 


282 


Thomas Bailey Aid rich . . 


283 


" " " . . 


283 


" " " . . . 


283 



xviii 


CONTENTS. 




The Green Gnome .... 


. . . Robert Buchanan .... 


. 284 




. . . E. C. Stedman ... 


. 285 
. 285 


Pan in Wall Street . . . 




A Match 


. . . Algcrjion Charles Sivinhurne 


. 286 


Never again 


. . . R.H. Stoddard 


. 287 


Landward 


. . . " " 


287 


November 


... 


287 


At Sea 


. . . J. T. Troiobridge .... 


287 


In the Defences .... 


. E. A. Allen {Florence Pcrcij) 


288 






389 


Dirge for a Soldier . . . 
The House in the Meadow 


. . . George H. Boker .... 


''90 


. . . Louise Chandler MouUon . . 


290 


The Late Spring .... 


... " " 


291 


In June 


. Nora Perry 


291 


After the Ball .... 


. . . " " 


292 


The Jester's Sermon . . . 


. . . G. TV. Thornbury .... 


293 


Climbing 


. . . Annie Fields 


294 


Coronation 


Helen Hunt 


294 
'>95 


The Way to sing .... 
The Sea-Limits 




. . . Dante Gabriel Eossetti . . . 


295 


A Summer Day 

Submission , , . 


. . . Celia Thaxter 


295 




2£6 
207 


March 


. . '. JFilliam Morris .... 


The Crickets 


. . . Harriet McEwen Kimball . 


297 




<( (( a 


298 
298 


The Survivors 


. . . Harriet JF. Preston . . . 


In the Sea 


Hiram Rich 


298 
299 
301 


Concha 


Francis Bret Hartc 


Dickens in Camp .... 




The Puritan Lovers . . . 


. . . Annie D. Green (3Iarian Douglas) 302 | 


Before the Gate .... 


. . . IVilliam D. Howells . . . 


303 


My old Kentucky Nurse . 


. . . .S-. 3f. B. Piatt 


803 


The Old-fashioned Choir . 


. . . B. F. Taylor 


304 


Mazzini 


Laura C Redden 


304 

305 
305 










On the Bridge of Sighs . 


. . . Elizabeth Stuart Phelps . . . 


306 


All the Rivers 


. . . " " "... . 


306 


White underneath . . . 


. . . Rebecca S. Palfrey 


307 


Listening for God . . . 


. . . IVilliam C. Gannett .... 


307 


God knoweth 


Unknown 


307 


A Song of Trust .... 


. . . John IV. Chadwick .... 


308 


Pre-existence 


. . . Paul H. Hayne 


309 


From the Woods .... 




309 



CONTENTS, 



XIX 



Ballad of the Brides of Quair 
Spring in Carolina .... 
Tacking Ship off Shore . . 

Hereafter 

Song 

AZRAEL 

From "Walker in Nicaragua" 

Sunrise in Venice 

Different Points of View . . 

Birch Stream 

Driving Home the Cows . . 

Waiting 

The Secret of Death . . . 

Fate 

The Petrified Fern .... 

Unseen 

The Quiet Meeting .... 

Midwinter 

Definitions 

Ready 

A Bird's Ministry 

What is the Use ? 

Abraham Lincoln 

Hymn to Christ 

The Blue and the Gray . . 

The Statue 

Waiting 

In the Mist 

The Morning Street .... 

Dawn 

The Sower , 

The Dance 

Come to me, Dearest 

The Music-Lesson of Confucius . 

Mine Own 

Urvasi 



Isa Craig Knox . . 
Henry Timrod . 
Walter F. Mitchell . 
Harriet Prescott Spq 

William Winter . 
Joaquin Miller . 



Unknoiun .... 
Anna. Boynton Averill 
Kate Putnam Osgood 
Lizzie G. Parker 
Unknown .... 
John A. Dor g an 
Mary Bolles Branch 
Unknown .... 
Harriet 0. Nelson . 
W. J. Linton . . 



Margaret J. Preston 

Erastus W. Ellsicorth 
Unknown .... 
Mrs. Miles . . 
F. M. Finch . . . 
Unknoivn .... 
John Burroughs 
Sarah Woolsey . 
John James Piatt . 
Richard W. Gilder 



The Fisherman's Funeral 

On recrossing the Rocky Mountains in 
Winter, after many Years .... 

July Dawning 

The Fisherman's Summons 

Work 

Two Moods 

Song of a Fellow-Worker 



William Bell Scott 
Joseph Brennan . 
Charles G. Leland . 

Helen Barron Bostwick 
Unknown . . 



Mary N. Prescott . 
Arthur 0' Shaughnessy 



310 
311 
311 
312 
313 
313 
313 
3U 
314 
315 
316 
316 
317 
318 
318 
318 
319 
320 
320 
321 
321 
321 
324 
325 
326 
326 
327 
327 
328 
328 
329 
329 
330 
331 
333 
334 
334 

335 

335 
336 
337 
337 
337 



XX 



co^^TE^'Ts. 



A Song Mrs. Knox 338 

A Cycle C. Brooke 339 

Italy. A Prophecy Archdeacon Hare . . . 339 

In Memoriam Unknown 340 

The Blackbird Frederick Tennyson . . 340 



LIST OF AUTHORS 



Page 
ADAMS, JOHN QUTNCY. 

Bereaved Mother, To a . • . . 137 

ADAMS, SARAH F. 

Nearer, my God, to Thee . . .245 

ADDTSON, JOSEPH. 

Hvmn 47 

Paraphrase of Psalm XXITI . . 47 

ALDRICH, THOMAS BAILEY. 

After the Rain 283 

Before the Rain 283 

Piscataqua River 283 

ALEXANDER, C. F. 

Burialof Moses, The . . . .237 

ALEXANDER, W. 

Up Above 247 

ALLEN, ELIZABETH AKER3 (FLORENCE 
PERCY). 
In the Defences 288 

ALLTNGHAM, WILLIAM. 

Touchstone, The 217 

ARNOLD, MATTHEW. 

Last Word, The 20(5 

Terrace at Berne, The .... 265 
Urania 2Gi3 

AVERTLL, ANNA BOYNTON. 

Birch Stream 315 

AYTON, SIR ROBERT. 

Fair and Unworthy .... 26 

BALLLIE, JOANNA. 

The Gowan glitters on the Sward . . 86 
BARBAULD, ANNA L. 

Death of the A'irtuous, The . . 74 

Life 75 

Sabbath of the Soul, The ... 74 
BARHAM, RICHARD H. 

Jackdawof Rheims, The . . .150 

BARNARD, LADY ANNE. 

Auld Robin Gray 85 

BARTON, BERNARD. 

Not ours the Vows 144 

BAXTER, RICHARD. 

Resignation 39 

BEATTIE, JAMES. 

Hermit, The 72 



Page 
BLAKE, WILLIAM. 

Muses, To the 8'^ 

Tiger, The 85 

BLAMIRE, SUSANNA 

What ails this Heart o' mine ? . .75 

BLOOM FIELD, ROBERT. 

Soldier's Return, The . . . .87 

BOKER, GEORGE H. 

Dirge for a Soldier 290 

BONAR, HORATIUS. 

Inner Cahn, The 247 

Master's Touch, The ... 247 

BOSTWICIC, HELEN BARRON. 

Urvasj 334 

BOTTA, ANNE C. (LYNCH). 

Love 253 

BO WRING, SIR JOHN. 

From the Recesses 14*3 

Hymn 146 

BRAINARD, JOHN G. C. 

Epithalamium 156 

Fall of Niagara, The .... 155 

BRANCH, MARY B0LLE3. 

Petrified Fern, The 318 

BRENNAN, JOSEPH. 

Come to me, Dearest .... 330 
BROOKE, C. 

Cycle, A 339 

BROOKS, MARIA. 

Marriage 154 

BROWNE, FRANCES. 

Losses 184 

BROWNE, SIR THOMAS. 

Evening Hymn 29 

BROWNE. WILLIAM. 

Sirens' Song, The 25 

Song 25 

BROWNELL, HENRY HOWARD. 

Burial of the Dane, The . . . .261 

BROWNING, ELIZABETH BARRETT. 

Bertha in the Lane .... 191 

Oowper's Grave 194 

Mu.<ical Instrument, A . . . 19.3 
Sleep, The 190 



LIST OF AUTHORS. 



BROWNING, ROBERT. 

Evelyu Hope 
Lost Leader, The 
Rabbi Ben Ezra . 



BRYANT, WILLIAM CULLEN. 

Battle-Field, The . 
Burial of Love, The . 
Death of the Flowers, The 
Fringed Gentian, To the 
Thanatopsis . 
"The Rivulet," From . 
Waterfowl, To a 



BUCHANAN, ROBERT. 
Green Gnome, The . 

BURNS, ROBERT. 

Bard's Epitaph, A . . . . 
Elegy on Captain Matthew Henderson 

Highland Mary 

Mary in Heaven, To . . . 

Mary Morison 

Of a' the Airts the Wind can blaw . 
Vision, A 

BURBIDGE, THOMAS. 

Eventide 




COLERIDGE, SAMUEL TAYLOR. 

Christabel 

Genevieve ..... 

Hymn before Sunrise in the Vale 

Chamouni 

COLLINS, WILLIAM. 

Dirge in Cimbeline .... 

Evening, Ode to 

COOKE, ROSE TERRY 

Iconoclast, The .... 

" It is more blessed " . . . . 
CORBETT, BISHOP RICHARD. 

Farewell to the Fairies . 
COWLEY, ABRAHAM. 

Liberty 

Ofmyself . . . ' . 



2.58 
259 



BURROUGHS, JOHN. 
Waiting . 



BYRD, WILLIAM. 

My Mind to me a Kingdom is 
BYROM, JOHN. 
Careless Content 



CAMPBELL, THOMAS. 
Glcnara 
Last Man, The 
Lord Ullin's Daughter 



COWPER, WILLIAM. 

My Mother's Picture, Lines ( 
Mysteries of Providence . 
Royal George, Loss of the . 
CRABBE, GEORGE. 
I.saac Ashford . 

CRAIK, DINAH MULOCK. 
Coming Home 



Outward Bound 
Too Late . 



2.50 
250 
250 



CRANCH, CHRISTOPHER P. 
Knowing .... 



CRASn.\W, RICHARD. 

\Vishes . 



CANTERBURY, DEAN OF. 
Trust .... 



CAREW, LADY ELIZABETH. 

Revenge of Injuries 

CAREW, THOMAS. 

He that loves a rosy Cheek 



CAREY, ALICE. 

Her Last Poem . 

Krumley . 

Sure witness, The 



CAREY, PHEBE. 

Field Preaching 
Nearer Home 
Peace 



CHAD WICK, JOHN W. 

Song of Trust, A . 

CHANNING, WILLIAM E. 

Sleepy Hollow . 



CROLY, GEORGE. 

Cupid grown careful . . , .91 

CUNNINGHAM, ALLAN. 

A wet Sheet and a flowing Sea . . 144 
She 's gane to dwall in Heaven . . 145 
Thou hast sworn by thy God . . 145 

DANA, RICHARD H. 

Island, The 185 

Pirate, The 185 

Spectre Horse, The 186 

DANIEL, SAMUEL. 

From an Epistle to the Counte.ss of Cum- 
berland 14 



DA VIES, SIR JOHN. 
Soul, The 



CHATTERTON, THOMAS. 

Minstrel's Song in Ella, The 

CLARKE, JAMES FREEMAN. 
Caua .... 



CLOUGH, ARTHUR HUGH. 
" Bothie of Tober-Navuolich, 
New Sinai, The 
Qua Cursum Ventus . 
Stream of Life, The 



DAVY, SIR HUMPHRY 

AVritten after Recovery from aDangerous 
Illness 90 

DOBELL, SYDNEY. 

Keith of Ravelston . . . . '. 257 

DODDRIDGE, PHILIP. 

Ye golden Lamps of Heaven, farewell ' . 58 
DORGAN, JOHN A. 

Fate 318 

DRAKE, JOSEPH RODMAN. 

American Flag, The 

DRUMMOND, WILLIABI 

Lessons of Nature, The . 
DRYDEN, JOHN. 

Character of a Good Parson . 

Reason .... 

Song for St. Cecilia's Day, 1687 

Under Milton's Picture 



. 156 



LIST OF AUTHORS. 



DUFFERTN, LADY. 

Irish Euiirgant, The . . . .163 
DYER, JOHN. 

Gi'ongar Hill 54 

ELLIOTT, EBENKZER. 

Corn-Law Hymn 143 

Forest Worship 142 

Ghost at Noon, A 142 

ELLIOTT, JANE. 

Lament for Flodden . . . .88 

ELLSWORTH, ERASTUS W. 

What is the Use ? 321 

ELWOOD, THOMAS. 

Prayer 39 

EMERSON, RALPH WALDO. 

Apologv, The 199 

Boston Hvnin 201 

Each and All 200 

Problem, The . . . . 200 
Soul's Prophecy, The . . . .202 
Thine Eyes stiU shone . . . 200 
To Eva 199 

FABER, FREDERIC WILLIAM. 

Tlic Rijrht must win . . . . 239 

The Will of God . . . . .239 
FERGUSON, SAMUEL. 

Forging of the Anchor, The . . . 170 
FIELDS, ANNIE. 

CUmbing 294 

FIELDS, JAMES T. 

■Wordsworth 260 

FINCH, F. M 

Blueand the Gray, The. . . .326 
rURNESS, WILLIAM H. 

Eternal Light 260 

GANNETT, AVILLIAM C. 

Listening for God ..... 307 

GARRISON, WILLIAM LLOYD. 

Sonnet 168 

GAY, JOHN 

The Painter who plea.=!ed Nobody and 
Everybody 50 

GILDER, RICHARD W. 

Dawn ,328 

The Sower 'S2d 

GLASSFORD, JAMES. 

The Dead who have died in the Lord . 89 

GOLDSMITH, OLIVER. 

" The Deserted Village," From . . 65 

GORDON, GEORGE (LORD BYRON). 

Destruction of Sennacherib, The . 125 
Immortal Mind, The .... 126 
Lake of Geneva, The .... 126 

Mont Blanc 126 

She walks in Beauty . ... 125 

GR.4NT, SIR ROBERT. 

Saviour ! whose mercy . . . 178 I 

GRAY, THOMAS 

Elegy written in a Country Churchyard 60 ! 
Ode on a distant Prospect of Eton College 62 j 

GREEN, ANNIE D (MARIAN DOUGLAS). ' 

Puritan Lovers, The .... 302 : 



GREENWELL, DORA 

Sunflower, The 272 

Vespers 273 

HALLECK, FITZ-GREENE. 

Burns 165 

Red Jacket, On a Portrait of . . 166 

HAMILTON, WILLIAM. 

Braes of Yarrow, The . . . .56 

HARE, ARCHDEACON. 

Italy. A Prophecy . . . .339 

HARTE, FRANCIS BRET. 

Concha 299 

Dickens in Camp .... 301 

IIAWES, CHARLOTTE P. 

Down the Slope 276 

HAY, JOHN. 

Woman's Love, A 305 

HAYNE, PAUL H. 

From the W'oods 309 

Pre-existenee 309 

IIEBER, REGINALD. 

If thou wert by my Side .... 143 

HEMANS, FELICIA. 

Childe"s Destiny, The . . . .153 
Kindred Hearts 154 

HERBERT, EDWARD (EARL OF CHER- 
BURY). 
Celinda 29 

HERBERT, GEORGE. 

Flower, The 31 

Rest 32 

Virtue 31 

HERRICK, ROBERT. 

Blossoms, To 31 

Dafifodils, To 30 

To keep a True Lent . . . .31 

HEYWOOD, THOMAS. 

Ciood-Morrow 26 

Search after God. .... 26 

HOGG, JAMES. 

Rapture of Kilmeny, The . . , 121 
When Maggy gangs away . . . 121 

HOLMES, OLIVER WENDELL. 

Chambered Nautilus, The ... 223 
Deacon's Masterpiece, The . . . 221 

Dorothy Q 219 

Living Temple, The .... 219 

Robinson of Leydea .... 221 

Under the Violets 223 

Voiceless, The 220 

HOOD, THOMAS. 

Morning Meditations . . . .160 

Ruth 161 

Song ....... 161 

Song of the Shirt, The. . . .160 

HOWARD, HENRY, EARL OF SURREY. 

No Age content with his own Estate . 3 

HOWE, JULIA WARD. 

" A Tribute to a Servant," From . . 235 
Battle Ilynm of the Republic . . 236 

HOWELL, ELIZABETH LLOYD. 

Milton's Prayer iu Blindness . . .237 



XXIV 



LIST OF AUTHORS, 



HOWELLS, WILLIAM D. 

Before the Gate 303 

HOWITT, MARY. 

Tibbie Inglis 181 

HOWITT, WILLIAM. 

Departure of the Swallow, The . . 182 

HUME, ALEXANDER 

Summer's Day, A 10 

HUNT, HELEN. 

Coronation 294 

Way to sing, The .... 293 

HUNT, LEIGH. 

Abou Ben Adhem and the Angel . 144 
An Angel in the Houte . . . .144 

INGELOW, JEAN 

High Tile on the Coast of Lincolnshire, 

The 280 

Seven Times Four 282 

Seven Times Seven 282 

JOHNSON, SAMUEL. 

Death of Dr. Levett, On the . . . id 

JONSON, BEN. 

Epitaph on Elizabeth L. II. . . 19 

How near to Good is what is Fair I . . 19 

Noble Nature, The .... 18 

On Lucy, Countess of Bedford . . 19 

Song of Hesperus .... 18 

Sweet Neglect, The 19 

KEATS, JOHN. 

Saint Agues, The Eve of . . . .129 

KEBLE, JOHN. 

Inward Music 178 

Morning 177 

KEMBLE, FRANCES ANNE. 

Faith 175 

KEN, THOMAS. 

Morning Hymn 46 

KIMBALL, HARRIET McEWEN. 

All's Well 298 

Cricliets, The 297 

KING, HENRY. 

Elegv 28 

Sic Vita 27 

KINGSLEY, CHARLES. 

Myth, A 250 

Sands of Dee, The .... 249 
Three Fishers, The 249 

KNOWLES, HERBERT. 

Lines written in Richmond Churchyard, 
Yorkshire 93 

KNOX, ISA CRAIG. 

Brides of Quair, The Ballad of the . . olO 

KNOX, MRS. 

Song, A 3db 

KNOX, WILLIAM. 

O, why should the Spirit of Mortal be 
proud? ...... 149 

LAIDLAW, WILLIAM. 

Lucy 's Flittiu' 182 



LAMB, CHARLES. 

Hester 120 

Housekeeper, The 120 

Old Familiar Faces, The ... 120 

LANDON, LETITfA E. 

Death and the Youth .... 254 
Shepherd-Boy, The 253 

LANDOR, WALTER SAVAGE. 

Lament 137 

LANGHORXE, JOHN. 

Dead, The 73 

LARCOM, LUCY. 

By the Fireside 275 

Strip of Blue, A 274 

LEGGETT, WILLIAM. 

Love and Friendship .... 165 

LELAND, CHARLES G. 

Mine Own .333 

The Music-Lesson of Confucius . . 331 

L'ESTRANGE, SIR ROGER. 

lu Prison 39 

LEWES MRS. (GEORGE ELIOT). 

O may I join the Choir invisible 1 . . 248 

LEYDEN, JOHN. 

Ode to an Indian Gold Coin ... 90 

LINTON, W. J. 

Definitions 820 

Mitlwinter 3'.i0 

LIPPINCOTT, SARA J. (GRACE GUEEN- 
AVOOD). 
Poet of To-day, The . . . .263 

LOGAN, JOHN. 

Cuckoo, To the 75 

Yarrow Stream ..... 75 

LONGFELLOW, HENRY W. 

Hawthorne 211 

Maidenhood 209 

Paul Revere's Ride 207 

Psalm of Life, A 209 

Resignation 210 

Santa Filomena 211 

LONGFELLOW, SAMUEL. 

Golden Sunset, The . . . .244 

LOVELACE, SIR RICHARD. 

Althea.To 30 

Lucasta,To 30 

LOWELL, JAMES RUSSELL. 

After the Burial 227 

Ambrose 226 

Commemoration Ode .... 228 

Courtin', The 225 

Heritage, The '-24 

New England Spring .... 224 

LOWELL, MARIA WHITE. 

Alpine Sheep, The 229 

LUNT, GEORGE 

Pilgrim Song 168 

LYTTOX, EDWARD LORD. 

Sabbath, The 174 

LYTTON, ROBERT LORD. 

Artist, The 266 



MACDONALD, GEORGE. 
Ilymu f.jr t'ae Mother . 
Lassie aj'ont the Hill 

MACKAY, CHARLES. 
Small Bcgiuniugs . 
Tubal Cain . 



LIST OF AUTHORS. 



NEAL, .TOITN". 
Ambition 



MAHONY, FRANCIS (FATHER PROUT) 
Bells of Shandon, The . 

MARLOWE, CHRISTOPHER. 

Passionate ShepherJ to his Love, 

MARVELL, ANDREW. 

Bermudas, The .... 

Thoughts in a Garden . 
MASSEY, GERALD. 

To-day and To-morrow . 

MERRICK, JAMES. 
Chameleon, The 



MICKLE, WILLIAM JULIUS. 
Mariner's Wife, The 

MILES, MRS. 

Hymn to Christ 

MILLER, JOAQUIN. 

Sunrise in Venice 

" Walker in Nicaragua,"' From 

MILLER, THOMAS. 

Evening Song .... 



MILNES, RICHARD MONCKTON (LORD 
HOUGHTON). 

Brookside, The 

Men of Old, The. 

Palm and the Pine, The 
MILTON, JOHN. 

Hymn on the Nativity . 

Sonnets .... 



MITCHELL, WALTER F. 
Tacking Ship oCf Shore . 

MONTGOMERY, JAMES. 

Common Lot, The . 

Forever with the Lord 

Prayer 

MONTROSE, MARQUIS OF. 

I '11 never love thee more 
MOORE, THOM.^S. 

Fly to the De-ert . 

Mid Hour of Night, The . 

O Thou wlio drv'st the Mourner's Tear 

Vale of Avoca, The 

Thouart, Goi: . 



MORRIS, WILLIAM. 
March ... 

MOTHERWELL, WILLIAM. 

Jeauie Morrison 
MOULTON, LOUISE CHANDLER 

House in the Meadow, The . 

Late Spring, The 

MUHLENBERG, W. A. 

I would not live alway . 

NAIRN, LADY CAROLINE. 
Land o' the Leal, The 

NASH, THOMAS. 

Contentment 12 




NELSON, HARRIET 0. 
Quiet Meeting, The 

NICOLL, ROBERT. 
Wc are Brethren a' . 



NORTON, ANDREWS. 

After a Summer Shower . 

NORTON, CAROLINE ELIZABETH 
Biugen on the Rhine 

OSGOOD, FRANCES S. 

Labor 

OSGOOD, KATE PUTNAM. 
Driving Home the Cows . 

O'SHAUGHNESSY, ARTHUR. 

Song of a Fellow- Worker 
PALFREY, REBECCA S. 

■White Underneath . . . 
PARKER, LIZZIE G. 

availing 



PARKER, THEODORE. 

The Way, the Truth, and the Life 

PARSONS, THOMAS W. 
Campanile de Pisa . 
On a Bust of Dante 

PATMORE, COVENTRY. 

Chase, The 

Lover, The .... 
Woman 



PAYNE, JOHN HOWARD. 

Sweet Home . 
PEABODY, W. B. 0. 

Hymn of Nature 

PERCIVAL, JAMES G. 

Blay 

Seneca Lake, To . 



PERCY, THOMAS 

Friar of Orders Gray, The 
PERKINS, J. H. 

Upright Soul, The . 
PERRY, NORA. 

After the Ball . 

In June . 



184 
147 
173 
175 
316 
337 



230 
231 

252 
253 
252 



292 
291 



PHELPS, ELIZABETH STUART. 

All the Rivers . 

On the Bridge of Sighs . 
PIATT, JOHN JAMES. 

The Morning Street 
PIATT, S. M. B. 

Sly Old Kentucky Nurse 
PIERPONT, JOHN. 

Congress, To , . . 

Passing Away .... 
PINKNEY, EDWARD COATE. 

Health, A . . . . 

POE, EDGAR A. 

Bells, The .... 



POPE, ALEXANDER. 

Happiness 

Universal Prayer, The . 



LIST OF xVUTIIOr.S. 



PRAED, TriNTimOP JIACKWOUTII. 

Belle of the Ball, The . . . .163 

PKESCOTT, MARY N. 

Two Moods 337 

Work 837 

PRESTON, HARRIET W. 

Survivors, The 298 

PRESTON, MARGARET J. 

Ready 321 

Bird's Ministry, A .... 334 

PRIEST, NANCY A. W. 

Over the River 277 

PROCTER, ADELAIDE A. 

Friend Sorrow 278 

Judge Not 278 

PROCTER, BRYAN WALUm (BARRY 
CORNWALL) 
Petition to Time, A .... 179 

Prayer in Sickness, A. . . .179 

PROCTOR, EDNA DEAN. 

Our lleroes 289 

RALEIGH, SIR WALTER. 

Nvmph's Reply, The .... 5 

Pi!£;riui, The 5 

Soul's Errand, The .... 5 

R-OISAY, ALLAN. 

Song 49 

READ, THOMAS BUCH.^NAN. 

Closing Scene, The 279 

REDDEN, LjVURA C. 

Mazziiii 304 

Unawares 305 

RICH, HTRAM. 

In the Sea 298 

RTDDELL, HENRY SCOTT. 

Our Mary 169 

ROGERS. SAMUEL. 

Italian Song 81 

Wish, A 81 

ROSSETTI, DANTE GABRIEL. 

Sea-Limits, The 295 

ROSSETTI, CHRISTINA. 

After Death 272 

Weary 272 

ROYDON, MATTHEW. 

Lament for Astrophel (Sir Philip Sidney) 7 

S.^XE, .lOHN O. 

Sleep and Death 2-32 

Wishing 232 

SCOTT, SIR WALTER. 

Christmas-Time 107 

Coronach 106 

Hebrew Maid, Hymn of the . . .107 
Imprisoned Huntsman, Lay of the . 105 

Serenade, A 105 

Song 105 

Trosachs, The 105 

Young Lochinvar .... 104 

SCOTT, WILLIAM BELL. 

Dance, The 329 



SCUDDER, ELIZA. 
Love of God, The 

SEARS, E. H. 

Christmas Hvnin 



SEWALL, HARRIET WINSLOW. 

Why thus longing ? . 

SHAKESPEARE, WILLIAM. 

Songs 



Sonnets 

SHELLEY, PERCY BYSSHE. 

One Word is too often profaned . 

Skylark, To a 

Stanziis written in Dejection near Naples 
SHENSTONE, WILLIAM. 

Schoolmistress, The .... 

SHERIDAN, RICHARD BRINSLEY. 

Had I a Heart for Falsehood framed 
SHIRLEY, JAMES 

Death tlie Leveller 

SIDNEY, SIR PHILIP. 

Sonnets . 

SIGOURNEY. LYDIA H. 

Indian Names 



SMITH, ALEXANDER. 

Ladv Barbara . 



245 

238 

251 

16 
17 



SMITH, HORACE. 

Egyptian Mummy, .\ddross to an 
II\ mn to the Flowers 



SOUTHEY, CAROLINE BOWLES. 
Mariner's Hymn . . . 

SOUTHEY. ROBERT. 

Brough Bells .... 
luchcape Rock, The . 
Stanzas 



SOUTHWELL, ROBERT. 
Content and Rich . 



SPENCER, WILLIAM R. 

Lady -Anne Hamilton, To the 

SPENSER, EDMUND. 

Angelic Ministry . . . . 

Bower of Bliss, The . 

" The Epithalamium,'" From . 

House of Riches, The . 

True Woman. The . . . , 

Una and the Lion 

SPOFFORD, HARRIET PRESCOTT. 

Hereafter 

Song 

SPRAGUE, CH.A^RLES. 

I Family Meeting, The 

STEDM.\N, F. C. 

Doorstep, The .... 
Pan in Wall Street . 



STERLING, JOHN. 
Hymn 

STERNHOLD, THOMAS. 
Majesty of God 

STODD.\RD, LAVINIA. 
The Soul's Defiance 



LIST OF AUTHORS. 



STODDARD, R. H. 
Landward . 
Never Again . 
November 



STREET, ALFRED B. 
Settler, The 



STRODE, WILLIAM. 
Music 



STOWE, HARRIET BEECIIER. 

Other World, The . 



SWINBURNE, ALGERNON CHARLES. 
xMatch, A 

TANNAHILL, ROBERT. 

Braes o' Balquhither, The . 
Midges dance aboou the Burn, The 

TAYLOR, BAYARD. 

Mountains, The 

Oriental Idyl, An ... . 

Song of the Camp, The 

Voyagers, The .... 



TENNYSON, ALFRED. 

" Break, break, break I " 

Bugle Song 

Doubt .... 

Garden Song . 

Larger Hope, The 

Mariana . . . . 

Memory 

TENNYSON, FREDERICK. 

Blackbird, The 



THAXTER, CELIA. 

Submission ..... 
Summer Day, A . . . 

THOMSON, JAMES 

" Ttie Castle of Indolence," From 
Hymn, A .... . 

TIIOKEAU. H. D. 

Inspiratiou .... 
TIIORNBURY, G. W. 

Jester's Sermon, The . . 
THRALE, MRS. 

Three Warnings, The . 
TIMROD, HENRY. 

Spring in Carolina . 
TOPLADY, AUGUSTUS M. 

Love divine, all Love excelling 
TRENCH, RICHARD CHENEVIX. 

Kingdom of God, The . 

TROWBRIDGE, J. T. 

At Sea 



TURNER, ELIZA SPROAT. 

Angel's Visit, An . 

UNKNOWN. 

Abraham Lincoln . 
Again .... 
Barring o' the Door, The 
Begone dull Care I 



UNKNOWN, 

Boatie rows. The • 

Bonnie George Campbell 

Different Points of View . 

Edom o' Gordon 

Fisherman's Funeral, The 

Fisherman's Summons, Th< 

Glenlogie 

God knoweth 

In Memoriam . 

John Davidson . 

July dawning . . 

Lady Mary Ann . 

Love will "find out the Way 

May-Day Song 

On recrossing the Rocky Mountains 

Winter, after many Years . 
Quiet from God . 
Robin Goodfellow . 
Secret of Death, The . 
Statue, The . 
Summer Days 

Take thy auld Cloak about thee 
There was Silence in Heaven 
Two Worlds, The . 
Unseen .... 
Until Death .... 
W<aly, waly, but Love be bonny 
When the Grass shall cover m« 



VAUGHAN, HENRY. 
Bird, The 
They are all gone 



. 314 
22 



78 
807 

aw 

78 
335 

19 
20 



244 
21 
317 
32(5 
183 
24 
136 
276 
318 
251 



VAUX, LORD THOMAS. 

Thought 



qm VERE, AUBREY DE. 

^^ I Sisters, The 2j4 



VERY, JONES. 

Painted Columbine, To the 
Present Heaven, The 

WALLER, EDMUND. 
Old Age and Death . 

WARING, ANNA L. 

My Times are in Thy Hand 

WASSON, DAVID A. 

All 's Well . . . . 

Royalty 



Seen and Unseen . 



241 

:;4i 

1.40 



WATTS, ISAAC. 

Heavenly Land, The 

WEBSTER, DANIEL. 

Memory of the Heart, The 

WESLEY, CHARLES. 

Jesus, Lover of my Soul . 

WHITE, HENRY KIRKE. 

Early Primrose, To an 
1 Herb Rosemary, To the . 
Star of Bethlehem , The 

WHITE, JOSEPH BLANCO. 

Night and Death . 



WHITMAN, SARAH HELEN. 
A Still Day in Autumn . 

WHITNEY, ADELINE D. T 

" I will abide in thine House ' 
Sunlight and Starlight . 



XXVlll 



LIST OF AUTHORS. 



MHITNEY, ANNE. 

Bertha 268 

■\VIIITTIKR, ELIZABETH H. 

Charity 273 

Meeting "Waters, The .... 273 

WHITTIER, JOHN G. 

EveofEleotiou, The .... 216 
Grave by the Lake, The . . . .212 

In School-Days 215 

Laus Deo 1 216 

My Birthday 214 

The Vanishers 215 

WILDE, RICHARD HENRY. 

My Life is hke the Summer Rose . . 152 

WILLIAMS, HELEN MARIA. 

Whilst Thee I seek 136 

WILLIS, NATHANIEL PARKER. 

"Melanie," From .... 172 
Unseen Spirits 172 

WILSON, JOHN. 

Evening Cloud, The .... 14G 

WINTER, WILLIAM. 

Azrael 313 

WITHER, GEORGE. 

Companionship of the Muse . . .34 
For one that hears himself much praised 33 



WOLFE, CHARLES. 

Burial of Sir John Moore, The . . 152 

WOODWORTH, SAMUEL. 

Bucket, The 147 

WOOLSEY, SARAH. 

In the Mist 327 

WORDSWORTH, WILLIAM. 

Cuckoo, To the 100 

Daffodils, The 99 

Intimations of Immortality . . 97 

Memory, A luO 

Ode to Duty .... 102 

Peele Castle in a Storm, On a Picture of 101 
River Duddon, To the ... 103 
She was a Phantom of Delight . . 100 

Sleep, To • 103 

AV'orld,The luS 

Yarrow Unvlsited ... .101 

WOTTON, SIR HENRY. 

Good Man, The 13 

To his Mistress, the Queen of Bohemia 13 

WYATT, SIR THOMAS. 

A Description of such a one as he would 

love . ' 4 

Pleasure mixed with Pain ... 4 



LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS, 



Page 

' When all is done and said " 3^ 

• Go, soul, the body's guest " 5 ' 

■ How can she but immortal be " 11' 

' Thou thy worldly task hast done " 16" 

'From the towering eagle to the wren" 26' 

'■ Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright "...... 31' 

■ For though in dreadful whirls we hung " ...... 47"^ 

■ Forth in the pleasing spring " 52' 

■ The paths of glory lead but to the grave " 61' 

■ Then let me rove some wild and heathy scene " 6-1 

' Yet stay, fair lady, turn again " . , ... . . . .68 

■ Drew nie to school along the public way " 70' 

• The tears shall never leave my cheek " . . . . . . .76 

• Mine be a cot beside the hill " 81^ 

' I gang like a ghaist, and I carena to spin " 85 

' While I am lying on the grass " 100 

' Loch-Katrine lay beneath him rolled " 106 

' 'T was Christmas told the merriest tale " 108 

' They clasped her waist and her hands sae fair " 122 ' 



XXX LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 

" The sun is warm, the sky is clear " 127' 

" A wet sheet and a flowing sea " 144: 

" The little snow-bird still remains " ....... 165 

" And is the swallow gone ?"....,.,.. 182 

"Whither .... dost thou pursue Thy solitary way ?" . . . . 187' 

" Break, break, break " 196 

" But mostly he watched Avith eager search" 208 

" The heart of Rachel, for her children crying " 210" 

" Still stands the school-house by the road " . . . . , . 215 

•' ' There ! ' said the Deacon, ' naow she '11 dew ! ' " 222' 

" Says he, ' I 'd better call agin ' " 226' 

" The secret of the skies we keep " 262 ^ 

y 

" Midwinter comes to-morrow " 320 






^PPlERlIKPORpeg 



FROM SHAKESPEARE TO MILTON. 



From Shakespeare to Milton. 



LOED THOMAS VAUX. 

[1510-1557.] 

THOUGHT. 

When all is done and said, 

In the end this shall you find : 
He most of all doth bathe in bliss 

That hath a quiet mind ; 
And, clear from worldly cares, 

To deem can be content 
The sweetest time in all his life 

In thinking to be spent. 

The body subject is 

To fickle Fortune's power. 
And to a million of mishaps 

Is casual every hour ; 
And Death in time doth change 

It to a clod of clay ; 
When as the mind, which is divine, 

Euns never to decay. 

Companion none is like 

Unto the mind alone. 
For many have been harmed by speech, — 

Through thinking, few, or none. 
Fear oftentimes restraineth words. 

But makes not thoughts to cease ; 
And he speaks best, that hath the skill 

When for to hold his peace. 



Our wealth leaves us at death, 

Our kinsmen at the grave : 
But virtues of the mind unto 

The heavens with us we have : 
Wherefore, for virtue's sake, 

I can be well content 
The .sweetest time of all my life 

To deem in thinking spent. 



THOMAS STEPtMOLD. 

[Died 1549.] 
MAJESTY OF GOD. 

The Lord descended from above. 
And bowed the heavens most high, 

And underneath his feet he cast 
The darkness of the sky. 

On cherubim and seraphim 

Full royally he rode. 
And on the wings of mighty winds 

Came flying all abroad. 

He sat serene upon the floods. 

Their fury to i-estrain ; 
And he, as sovereign Lord and King, 

For evermore shall reign. 



HENET HOWAED, EAEL OF 
SUEEEY. 

[1515-1347-] 

NO AGE CONTENT WITH HIS OWN 
ESTATE. 

Laid in my quiet bed, 

In study as I were, 
I saw within my troubled head 

A heap of thoughts appear. 

And every thought did show 

So lively in mine eyes, • 
That now I sighed, and then I smiled, 

As cause of thoughts did rise. 



SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES, 



I saw the little boy, 

111 thought how oft that he 
Did wish of God, to scape the rod, 

A tall young man to be. 

The young man eke that feels 
His bones with pains opprest. 

How he would be a rich old man. 
To live and lie at rest : 

The rich old man that sees 

His end draw on so sore. 
How he would be a boy again, 

To live so much the more, 

"Whereat full oft I smiled, 

To see how all these three, 
From boy to man, from man to boy, 

Would chop and change degree : 

And musing thus, I think. 

The case is verj'^ strange, 
That man from wealth, to live in woe, 

Doth ever seek to change. 

Thus thoughtful as I lay, 

I saw my withered skin. 
How it doth show my dented thews. 

The flesh was worn so thin ; 

And eke my toothless chaps, 

The gates of my right way. 
That opes and shuts as I do speak, 

Do thus unto me say : 

" The white and hoavish hairs. 

The messengers of age, 
That show, like lines of true belief. 

That this life doth assuage ; 

" Bid thee lay hand, and feel 

Them hanging on my chin. 
The which do write two ages past, 

The third now coming in. 

" Hang up, therefore, the bit 
Of thy J'oung wanton time ; 

And thou that therein beaten art, 
The happiest life define." 

Whereat I sighed, and said, 

" Farewell my wonted joy ! 
Truss up thy pack, and trudge from me, 

To every little boy ; 

" And tell them thus from me, 

Their time most happy is, 
If to their time they reason had. 

To know the truth of this." 



SIR THOMAS WYATT. 

[IS03-1S42-] 

PLEASURE MIXED WITH PAIN. 

Venomous thorns that are so sharp and 
keen 
Bear flowers, we see, full fresh and 
fair of hue : 
Poison is also put in medicine. 

And unto man his health doth oft 
renew. 
The fire that all things eke consumeth 
clean, 
May hurt and heal : then if that this 
be true, 
I trust some time my harm may be my 

health. 
Since every woe is joined with some 
wealth. 



A DESCRIPTION OF SUCH A ONE AS 
HE WOULD LOVE. 

A FACE that should content me wondrous 
well, 

Should not be fair, but lovely to behold 

With gladsome cheer, all grief for to ex- 
pel ; 

With sober looks so would I that it 
should 

Speak without words, such words as 
none can tell ; 

The tress also should be of crisped gold. 

With wit and these, might chance I 
might be tied, 

And knit again with knot that should 
not slide. 



CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE. 

[I564-I593-] 

THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD TO HIS 
LOVE. 

Come live with me, and be my love. 
And we will all the jileasures prove. 
That valleys, groves, and hills and fields, 
Wood or steepy mountain yields. 

And we will sit upon the rocks. 
Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks 




■Go, SOUL, THE body's GUEST." — Page 5 



SIR WALTEE RALEIGH. 



By shallow rivers, to whose falls 
Melodious birds sing madrigals. 

And I will make thee beds of roses, 
And a thousand fragrant posies ; 
A cap of Howers and a kirtle, 
Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle ; 

A gown made of the finest wool, 
"Which from our pretty lambs we pull ; 
Fair lined slippers for the cold, 
With buckles of the purest gold ; 

A belt of straw and ivy buds. 
With coral clasps and amber studs : 
And if these pleasures may thee move, 
Come live with me, and be my love. 

The shepherd swains shall dance and 

sing, 
For thy delight, each May-morning : 
If these delights thy mind may move, 
Then live with me, and be my love. 



SIR WALTER RALEIGH. 

[1S52-1618.] 

THE NYMPH'S REPLY. 

If all the world and love were young. 
And truth in every shepherd's tongue. 
These pretty pleasures might me move 
To live with thee, and be thy love. 

Time drives the flocks from field to fold, 
Wiien rivers rage and rocks grow cold ; 
And Philomel becometh dumb. 
The rest complain of cares to come. 

The flowers do fade, and wanton fields 
To wayward winter reckoning yields ; 
A honey tongue, a heart of gall, 
Is fancy's spring, but sorrow's fall. 

Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses. 
Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies. 
Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten, 
In folly ripe, in reason rotten. 

Thy belt of straw and ivy bnds. 
Thy coral clasps and amber studs, — 
All these in me no means can move 
To come to thee and be thy love. 



But could youth last, and love still breed, 
Had joys no date, nor age no need, 
Then these delights my mind might move 
To live with thee and be thy love. 



THE PILGRIM. 

Give me my scallop-shell of quiet. 
My staff of faith to walk upon ; 
My scrip of joy, immortal diet; 
My bottle of salvation ; 
My gown of glor}' (hope's true gauge), 
And thus I '11 take ray pilgrimage. 
Blood nmst be my body's 'balmer, 
Whilst my soul, a quiet Palmer, 
Travelleth towards the land of Heaven: 
No other balm will there be given. 
Over the silver mountains. 
Where spring the nectar fountains, 
There will I kiss the bowl of bliss, 
And drink mine everlasting fill 
Upon every milken hill ; 
My soul will be a-dry before, 
But after, it will thirst no more. 
Then, by that happy, blissful day, 

]\Iore peaceful pilgrims I shall see. 
That have cast oft' their rags of clay, 

And walk apparelled fresh, like me. 



THE SOUL'S ERRAKD. 

Go, soul, the body's guest. 

Upon a thankless errand ! 
Fear not to touch the best. 

The truth shall be thy warrant : 
Go, since I needs must die. 
And give the world the lie. 

Go, tell the court it glows. 

And shines like rotten wood ; 
Go, tell the church it shows 

What 's good, and doth no good : 
If church and court reply, 
Then give them both the lie. 

Tell potentates they live 

Acting by others' actions ; 
Not loved unless they give. 

Not strong but by their factions ; 
If potentates reply. 
Give potentates the lie. 

Tell men of high condition 
That rule att'airs of state. 



6 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 


Their purpose is ambition. 


Tell, manhood shakes off pity ; 


Their practice only hate : 


Tell, virtue least preferreth : 


And if they once replj', 


And if they do replj^. 


Then give them all the lie. 


Spare not to give the lie. 


Tell them that brave it most, 


So when thou hast, as I 


They beg for more by spending, 


Commanded thee, done blabbing, 


"Who in their greatest cost, 


Although to give the lie 


Seek nothing but commending : 


Deserves no less than stabbing, 


And if they make reply, 


Yet stab at thee who will, 


Then give them all the lie. 


No stab the soul can kill. 


Tell zeal it lacks devotion. 




Tell love it is but lust. 




Tell time it is but motion, 
Tell Hesh it is but dust : 


SIR PHILIP SIDNEY. 


And wish them not reply. 




For thou must give the lie. 


[1554-1586.] 


Tell age it daily wasteth. 


SONNETS. 


Tell honor how it alters, 


With how sad steps, Moon ! thou 


Tell beauty how she blasteth. 


climb'st the skies. 


Tell favor how she falters : 


How silently, and with how wan a face ! 


And as they shall rejdy. 
Give every one the lie. 


What may it be, that even in heavenly 
place 




That busy Archer his sharp arrows tries ? 


Tell wit how much it wrangles 


Sure, if that long with love acquainted 


In tickle jwints of niceness ; 


eyes 


Tell wisdom she entangles 


Can judge of love, thou feel'st a lover's 


Herself in over-wiseness : 


case ; 


And when they do reply. 


I read it in thy looks, thy languished grace 


Straight give them both the lie. 


To me that feel the like thy state descries. 




Then, even of fellowship, Moon, tell me. 


Tell physic of her boldness. 


Is constant love deemed there but want 


Tell skill it is pretension, 
Tell charity of coldness, 


of wit? 
Are beauties thereasproudashere they be ? 


Tell law it is contention : 


Do they above love to be loved, and yet 


And as they do reply. 


Those lovers scorn whom that love doth 


So give them still the lie. 


possess ? 
Do they call virtue there ungratefulness ? 


Tell fortune of her blindness, 




Tell nature of decay, 




Tell friendship of unkindness, 




Tell justice of delay : 


Come, Sleep, Sleep, the certain knot 


And if they will reply. 


of peace. 


Then give them all the lie. 


The baiting-place of wit, the balm of woe. 




The poor man's wealth, the prisoner's 


Tell arts they have no soundness, 


release. 


But vary by esteeming ; 


The indifferent judge between the high 


Tell schools they want profoundness, 


and low. 


And stand too much on seeming : 


With shield of proof shield me from out 


If arts and schools reply, 


the prease 


Give arts and schools the lie. 


Of those fierce darts. Despair at me doth 

throw ; 
make in me those civil wars to cease ! 


Tell faith it 's fled the city ; 


Tell how the country eii-eth ; 


I will good tribute pay, if thou do so. 



MATTHEW EOYDON. — EDMUND SPENSER. 



Take thou of me smooth pillows, sweetest 

bed; 
A chamber deaf to noise and blind to 

light ; 
A rosy garland, and a weary head. 
And if these things, as being thine by right, 
Move not thy heavy grace, thou shalt in 

me 
Livelier than elsewhere Stella's image see. 



MATTHEW EOYDON. 

LAMENT FOR ASTROPHEL (SIR PHILIP 
SIDNEY). 

Yoxj knew, — who knew not Astrophel ? 

That I should live to say I knew, 
And have not in possession still ! — 
Things known permit me to renew. 
Of him you know his merit such 
I cannot say — you hear — too much. 

Within these woods of Arcady 

He chief delight and pleasure took ; 
And on the mountain Partheny, 
Upon the crystal liquid brook, 
The muses met him every day, — 
Taught him to sing, and write, and 
say. 

When he descended down the mount 
His personage seemed most divine ; 
A thousand graces one might count 
Upon his lovely, cheerful eyne. 

To hear him speak, and see him 

smile. 
You were in Paradise the while. 

A sweet, attractive kind of grace ; 

A full assurance given by looks ; 
Continual comfort in a face ; 

The lineaments of gospel books : 
I trow that countenance cannot lie 
Whose thoughts are legible in the eye. 

Above all others this is he 

Who erst approved in his song, 
That love and honor might agree, 
And that pure love will do no wrong. 
Sweet saints, it is no sin or blame 
To love a man of virtuous name. 

Did never love so sweetly breathe 
In any mortal breast before ; 



Did never muse inspire beneath 
A poet's brain with finer store. 

He wrote of love with high conceit 
And beauty reared above her height. 



EDMUND SPENSER. 

[I5S3-IS99-] 

ANGELIC MINISTRY. 

And is there care in Heaven? And is 

there love 
In heavenly spirits to these creatures base, 
That may compassion of their evils move ? 
There is, — else much more wretched 

were the case 
Of men than beasts : but the exceed- 
ing grace 
Of highest God, that loves hiscreaturesso. 
And all his works with mercy doth em- 

brace. 
That blessed angels he sends to and fro, 
To serve to wicked man, to serve his 
wicked foe ! 

How oft do they their silver bowers leave, 
To come to succor us that succor want ! 
How oft do they with golden pinions 

cleave 
The flitting skies, like flying pursuivant, 
Against foul fiends to aid us militant ! 
They for us fight, they watch and duly 

ward. 
And their bright squadrons round about 

us plant ; 
And all for love and nothing for reward ; 
O, why should heavenly God to men 

have such regard ? 



THE TRUE WOMAN. 

Thrice happy she that is so well assured 
Unto herself, and settled so in heart. 
That neither will for better be allured, 
Ne fears to worse with any chance to start, 
But like a steady ship doth strongly jjart 
The raging waves, and keeps her course 

aright ; 
Ne ought for tempest doth from it depart, 
Ne ought for fairer weather's false de- 
light. 



SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 



Such self-assurance need not fear the 

spite 
Of grudging foes, ne favor seek of friends ; 
But in the stay of herown steadfast might, 
Neither to one herself or other bends. 
Most happy she that most assured doth 

rest, 
But he most happy who such one loves 

best. 



FROM THE EPITHALAMIUM. 

Open the temjjle-gates unto my love. 
Open them wide that she may enter in, 
And all the posts adorn as doth behove. 
And all the pillars deck with garlands 

trim, 
For to receive this saint with honor due. 
That cometh in to you. 
With trembling steps and humble rev- 
erence 
She cometh in before the Almighty's view: 
Of her, ye virgins ! learn obedience, 
When so ye come into these holy places, 
To humble your proud faces. 
Bring her up to the high altar, that she 

may 
The sacred ceremonies there partake. 
The which do endless matrimony make ; 
And let the roaring organs loudly pky 
The praises of the Lord, in lively notes, 
The whiles with hollow throats 
The choristers the joyous anthems sing. 
That all the woods may answer, and 
their echo ring. 

Behold whiles she before the altar stands. 
Hearing the holy priest that to her speaks, 
And blesses herwith his twohappy hands. 
How red the roses Hush up in her cheeks ! 
And the pure snow, with goodly vermeil 

stain, 
Like crimson dyed in grain. 
That even the angels, which continually 
About the sacred altar do remain, 
Forget their service, and about her fly. 
Oft peeping in her face, that seems more 

fair 
The more they on it stare ; 
But her sad eyes, still fastened on the 

ground. 
Are governed with goodly modesty, 
That suffers not one look to glance awry, 
Which may let in a little thought un- 
sound. 
Wliy blush ye. Love ! to give to me your 
hand. 



The pledge of all your band ? 
Sing, ye sweet angels ! Alleluia sing. 
That all the woods may answer, and your 
echo ring. 



UNA AND THE LION. 

One day, nigh weary of the irksome way, 
From her unhasty beast she did alight ; 
And on the grass her dainty limbs did lay 
In secret shadow, far from all men's sight ; 
From her fair head her fillet she undight, 
And laid her stole aside : her angel's lace, 
As the great eye of heaven, shined bright, 
And made a sunshine in a shady place; 
Did never mortal eye behold such heav- 
enly grace. 

It fortuned, out of the thickest wood, 
A ramping lion rushed suddenly, 
Hunting full greedy after savage blood; 
Soon as the royal vii-gin he did spy. 
With gaping mouth at her ran g'reedil}', 
Tohaveat once devouredher tendercorse ; 
But to the prey when as he drew more 

nigh. 
His bloody rage assuaged with remorse, 
And, with the sight amazed, forgot his 

furious force. 

Instead thereof he kissed her weary feet. 
And licked her lily hands with fawning 

tongue. 
As he her wronged innocence did weet. 
how can beauty master the most strong. 
And simple truth subdue avengiiig wrong I 
Whose yielded pride and proud submis- 
sion, 
Still dreading death, when she had 

marked long. 
Her heart 'g'an melt in great compassion, 
And drizzling tears did shed for pure 
affection. 

The lion would not leave her desolate, 
But with her went along, as a strong 

guard 
Of her chaste person, and a faithful mate 
Of her sad troubles, and misfortuneshard. 
Still, when she slept, he kept both watch 

and ward ; 
And, when shewaked, he waited diligent, 
With humble service to her will pre- 
pared : 
Fromher fair eyes lietook commandment, 
And ever by her looks conceived her in- 
tent. 



EDMUND SPENSER. 



THE HOUSE OF RICHES. 

That house's form within was rude and 

strong, 
Like an huge cave hewn out of rocky clift, 
From whose rough vault the ragged 

breaches hung 
Embossed with massy gold of glorious 

gift, 
And with rich metal loaded every rift, 
That heavy ruin they did seem to threat ; 
And over them Arachne high did lift 
Her cunning web, and spread her subtle 

net. 
Enwrapped in foul smoke and. clouds 

more black than jet. 

Both roof, and floor, and walls, were all 
of gold, 

But overgrown with dust and old de- 
cay. 

And hid in darkness, that none could 
behold 

The hue thereof: for view of cheerful 
day 

Did never in that house itself display, 

But a faint shadow of uncertain light ; 

Such as a lamp whose life does fadeaway ; 

Or as the Moon, clothed with cloudy 
night. 

Does show to him that walks in fear and 
sad affright. 

In all that room was nothing to be seen 

But huge great iron chests, and coffers 
strong, 

All barred with double bends, that none 
could ween 

Them to enforce by violence or wrong; 

On every side they placed were along. 

But all the ground with sculls was scat- 
tered 

And dead men'sbones, which round about 
were flung ; 

Whose lives, it seemed, whilome there 
were shed. 

And their vile carcassesnowleft unburied. 



THE BOWER OF BLISS. 

There the most dainty paradise on ground 

Itself doth ofler to his sober eye. 

In which all pleasures plenteously 

abound, 
And none does others' happiness envy ; 



The painted flowers, the trees upshoot- 
ing high. 

The dales for shade, the hills for breath- 
ing space, 

The trembling groves, the crystal run- 
ning by ; 

And that which all fair works doth most 
aggrace. 

The art, which all that wrought, ap- 
peared in no place. 

One would have thought (so cunningly 
the rude 

And scorned parts were mingled with the 
fine) 

That nature had for wantonness ensued 

Art, and that art at nature did re- 
pine ; 

So striving each the other to under- 
mine. 

Each did the other's work more beautify ; 

So differing both in wills, agreed in 
fine : 

So all agreed through sweet diversity, 

This garden to adorn with all variety. 

Eftsoons they heard a most melodious 

sound, 
Of all that might delight a dainty ear, 
Such as at once might not on living 

_ ground. 
Save in this paradise be heard elsewhere : 
Kight hard it was for wight which did 

it hear. 
To read what manner music that might 

be : 
For all that jileasing is to living ear. 
Was there consorted in one harmony ; 
Birds, voices, instruments, winds, wa- 
ters, all agree. 

The joyous birds, shrouded in cheerful 

shade. 
Their notes unto the voice attempered 

sweet ; 
The angelical soft trembling voices made 
To the instruments divine respondence 

meet; 
The silver sounding instruments did 

meet 
With the base murmur of the water's 

fall : 
The water's fall with difference discreet. 
Now soft, now loud, unto the wind did 

call: 
The gentle warbling wind low answered 

to all. 



10 



SONGS OF THEEE CENTURIES. 



EGBERT SOUTHWELL. 

[1560- 1595.] 

CONTENT AND RICH. 

I DWELT/ in grace's courts, 
Enriched with virtue's rights ; 

Faith guides niy wit, love leads my will, 
Hope all my mind delights. 

In lowly vales I mount 

To pleasure's highest pitch. 
My simjile dress sure honor brings. 

My poor estate is rich. 

My conscience is my crown, 
Contented thoughts my rest ; 

My heart is happy in itself; 
My bliss is in my breast. 

Enough, I reckon wealth ; 

A mean, the surest lot. 
That lies too high for base contempt. 

Too low for envy's shot. 

Jly wishes are but few. 

All easy to fulfil ; 
I make the limits of my power 

The bounds unto my will. 

1 have no hopes but one, 

Which is of lieavenly reign : 
Effects attained, or not desired, 

All lower hopes refrain. 

I feel no care of coin. 

Well-doing is my wealth : 
My mind to me an empiie is, 

"while grace affordeth health. 

I clip high-climbing thoughts. 
The wings of swelling pride : 

Their fate is worst, that from the height 
Of greater honor slide. 

Silk sails of largest size 

The storm doth soonest tear : 

I bear so low and small a sail 
As freeth me from fear. 

I wrestle not with rage 

While fury's flame doth burn ; 

It is in vain to stop the stream 
Until the tide doth turn. 

But when the flame is out. 
And ebbing wrath doth end, 



I turn a late-enraged foe 
Into a quiet friend ; 

And, taught with often proof, 

A tempered calm I find 
To be most solace to itself. 

Best cure for angry mind. 

Spare diet is my fare. 

My clothes more fit than fine ; 
I know I feed and clothe a foe 

Tliat, pampered, would repine. 

I envy not their hap 

Whom favor doth advance : 

I take no pleasure in their pain 
Tliat have less happy chance. 

To rise by others' fall 

I deem a losing gain : 
All states with others' ruins built 

To ruins run amain. 

No change of fortune's calms 
Can cast my comforts down : 

When fortune smiles, I smile to think 
How quickly she will frown ; 

And when, in fro ward mood, 

She proved an angry foe, 
Small gain I found to let her come, 

Less loss to let her go. 



ALEXAl^DER HUME. 

[About 1599,1 
A SUMMER'S DAY. 

The time so tranquil is and clear, 
That nowhere shall ye find. 

Save on a high and barren hill, 
An air of passing wind. 

All trees and simples, great and small, 

That balmy leaf do bear. 
Than they were painted on a wall. 

No more they move or stir. 

The ships becalmed upon the seas, 
Hang up their sails to dry ; 

The herds, beneath the leafy trees, 
Among the flowers they lie. 



SIR JOHN DAVIES. 



11 



Great is the calm, for everywhere 

The wind is settling down : 
The smoke goes upright in the air, 

From eveiy tower and town. 

What pleasure, then, to walk and see, 

Along a river clear, 
The perfect form of every tree 

Within the deep appear : 

The bells and circles on the waves, 

From leaping of the trout ; 
The salmon from their creels and caves 

Come gliding in and out. 

sure it were a seemly thing. 

While all is still and calm, 
The praise of God to play and sing. 

With trumpet and with shalm ! 

All laborers draw home at even. 

And can to others say, 
" Thanks to the gracious God- of heaven. 

Who sent this summer day." 



Sm JOHN DAYIES. 

[1570- 1626.] 

THE SOUL. 

Again, how can she but immortal be. 
When with the motions of both will 
and wit 

She still aspireth to eternity. 
And never rests till she attain to it ? 

Water in conduit-pipes can rise no higher 
Than the well-head from whence it tirst 
doth spring : 
Then, since to eternal God she doth as- 
pire. 
She cannot be but an eternal thing. 

" All moving things to other things do 
move 
Of the same kind, which shows their 
nature such " ; 
So earth falls down, and fire doth mount 
above. 
Till both their proper elements do 
touch. 



And as the moisture which the thirsty 
earth 
Sucks from the sea to fill her empty 
veins, 
From out her womb at last doth take a 
birth. 
And runs a lymph along the grassy 
plains : 

Long doth she stay, as loth to leave the 
land 
From whose soft side the first did issue 
make ; 
She tastes all places, turns to every hand. 
Her flowery banks unwilling to for- 
sake. 

Yet Nature so her streams doth lead and 
carry, 
As that her course doth make no final 
stay. 
Till she herself unto the Ocean marry, 
Within whose watery bosom first she 
lay. 

Even so the soul, which in this earthly 
mould 
The spirit of God doth secretly in- 
fuse, 
Because at first she doth the earth be- 
hold, 
And only this material world she views. 

At first her mother Earth she holdeth 
dear, 
And doth embrace the world, and 
worldly things. 
She flies close by the ground and hovers 
here, 
And mounts not up with her celestial 
wings : 

Yet under heaven she cannot light on 
aught 
That with her heavenly nature doth 
agree ; 
She cannot rest, she cannot fix her 
thought, 
She cannot in this world contented be. 

For who did ever yet, in honor, wealth, 
Or pleasure of the sense, contentment 
find? 
Who ever ceased to wish when he had 
wealth ? 
Or having wisdom was not vexed in 
mind ? 



SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 



Then as a bee, which among weeds doth 
fall, 
Which seem sweet flowers with lustre 
fresh and gay, 
She lights on that and this, and tasteth 
all; 
But pleased with none, doth rise and 
soar away. 

So when the soul finds here no true con- 
tent, 
And like Noah's dove can no sure 
footing take. 
She doth return from whence slie first 
was sent, 
And Hies to Him that first her wings 
did make. 

So while the virgin soul on earth doth 
stay, 
She, wooed and tempted in ten thou- 
sand ways, 
By these great powers which on the earth 
bear sway. 
The wisdom of the world, wealth, 
pleasure, praise : 

With these sometimes she doth her time 
beguile. 

These do by fibs her fantfjsy possess ; 
But she distastes them all within a while. 

And in the sweetest finds a tedious- 



But if upon the world's Almighty King 

She onee doth fix her humble, loving 

thougiit ; 

Who by his jiicture drawn in eveiy thing, 

And sacred messages, her love hath 

sought ; 

Of him she thinks she cannot think too 
much ; 
This honey tasted still, is ever sweet ; 
The pleasure of her ravished thought is 
such. 
As almost here she with her bliss doth 
meet. 

But when in heaven she shall his essence 
see, 
This is her sovereign good, and perfect 
bliss. 
Her longings, wishings, hopes, all fin- 
ished be, 
Her joys are full, her motions rest in 
this. 



There is she crowned with garlands of 
content ; 
There doth she manna eat, and nectar 
drink : 
That presence doth such high delights 
present. 
As never tongue could speak, nor 
heart could think. 



THOMAS NASH. 

[1564- 1600.] 

CONTENTMENT. 

I NEVER loved ambitiously to climb, 
Or thrust my hand too far into the fire. 
To be in heaven siu'e is a blessed thing, 
But, Atlas-like, to prop heaven on one's 

back I 

Cannot but be more labor than delight. 
Such is thestate of men in honor placed : 
They are gold vessels made for servile 

uses ; 
High trees that keep the weather from 

low houses, 
But cannot shield the tempest from them- 
selves. 
I love to dwell betwixt the hills and dales, 
Neither to be so great as to be envied, 
Nor yet so poor the world should pity me. 



WILLIAM DRUMMOND. 

[1585- 1649.] 

THE LESSONS OF NATURE. 

Of this fair volume which we World do 

name 
If we the sheets and leaves could turn 

with care. 
Of him who it corrects, and did it frame, 
We clear might read the art and wisdom 

rare : 

Find out his power which wildest powers 

doth tame, 
His providence extending everywhere, 
His justice which proud rebels doth not 

spare, 
In every page, no period of the same. 



SIR HENRY WOTTOX. LADY ELIZABETH CAREW. 



13 



But silly we, like foolish children, rest 
Well pleased with colored vellum, leaves 

of gold. 
Fair dangling ribbons, leaving what is 

best, 
On the great writer's sense ne'er taking 

hold; 

Or if by chance we stay our minds on 

aught, 
It is some picture on the margin wrought. 



SIR HENRY WOTTON. 

[1568-1639.] 

TO HIS MISTRESS, THE QUEEN OF 
BOHEMIA. 

You meaner beauties of the night, 

That poorly satisfy our eyes 
More by your number than your light ! 

You common people of the skies ! 

What are you, when the sun shall rise? 

You curious chanters of the wood. 

That warble forth dame Nature's lays, 

Thinking your voices understood 

By your weak accents ! what 's your 

praise 
When Philomel her voice shall raise ? 

You violets that first appear, 

By your pure pjirple mantles known, 
Like the proud virgins of the year, 

As if the spring were all your own ! 

What are you, when the rose is blown ? 

So, wlien my mistress shall be seen 
In form and beauty of her mind ; 

By virtue first, then choice, a Queen ! 
Tell me, if she were not designed 
The eclipse and glory of her kind ? 



THE GOOD MAN. - 

How happy is he born and taught, 
That serveth not another's will ; 

Whose armor is his honest thought, 
And simple truth his utmost skill ! 

Whose passions not his masters are, 
Whose soul is still prepared for death, 



Untied unto the worldly care 

Of public fame, or pri\ate breath ; 

Who envies none that chance doth raise. 
Or vice; who never understood 

How deepest w^ounds are given by praise ; 
Nor rules of state, butrules of good ; 

Who hath his life from rumors freed. 
Whose conscience is liis strong retreat ; 

Whose state can neither flatterers feed. 
Nor ruin make oppressors great ; 

Who God doth late and early pray. 
More of his grace than gifts to lend ; 

And entertains the harmless day 
With a religious book or friend : 

This man is freed from servile bands, 
Of hope to rise, or fear to fall ; 

Lord of himself, though not of lands ; 
And having nothing, yet hath all. 



LADY ELIZABETH CAREW. 

[About 1613.] 
REVENGE OF INJURIES. 

The fairest action of our human life 
Is scorning to revenge an injury; 

For who forgives without a further strife, 
His adversary's heart to him doth tie ; 

And 't is a firmer conquest truly said. 

To win the heart, thanoverthrowthe head. 

If we a worthy enemy do find, 

To yield to worth it must be nobly done ; 
But if of baser metal be his mind. 

In base revenge there is no honor won. 
Who would a worthy courage overthrow? 
And who would wrestle with a worthless 
foe? 

We say our hearts are great, and cannot 

yield ; 
Because they cannot yield, it proves 

them poor: 
Great hearts are tasked beyond their 

power but seld ; 
The weakest lion will the loudest roar. 
Truth's school for certain doth this same 

allow ; 
High-heartedness doth sometimes teach 

to bow. 



14 



SONGS OF THKEE CENTUPJES. 



A noble lieart doth teach a virtuous 
scorn : — 
To scorn to owe a duty overlong ; 
To scorn to be for benefits forborne ; 

To scorn to lie ; to scorn to do a wrong ; 
To scorn to bear an injury in mind; 
To scorn a free-born heart slave-like to 
bind. 

But if for wrongs we needs revenge must 

have, 
Then be our vengeance of the noblest 

kind. 
Do we his body from our fury save, 
And let our hate prevail against his 

mind? 
What can 'gainst him a greater vengeance 

be, 
Than make his foe more worthy far than 

he? 



SAMUEL DANIEL. 

[1562-1619.] 

FROM AN EPISTLE TO THE COUNT- 
ESS OF CUMBERLAND. 

He that of such a height hath built his 

mind, 
And reared the dwelling of his thoughts 

so sti'ong. 
As neither fear nor hojie can shake the 

frame 
Of his resolved powers ; nor all the wind 
Of vanity or malice pierce to wrong 
His settled peace, or to disturb the same : 
"What a fair seat hath he, from whence he 

may 
The boundless wastes and wilds of man 

survey ? 

And with how free an eye doth he look 

down 
Upon these lower regions of turmoil ? 
Where all the storms of passions mainly 

beat 
On flesh and blood : where honor, power, 

renown. 
Are only gny afflictions, golden toil ; 
Where greatness stands upon as feeble 

feet. 
As frailty doth ; and only great doth seem 
To little minds, who do it 



He looks upon the mightiest monarch's 

wars 
But only as on stately robberies ; 
Where evermore the fortune that prevails 
Must be the right : the ill-succeedingmars 
The fairest and the best faced enterprise. 
Great pirate Pompey lesser jnrates quails : 
Justice, he sees (as if seduced), still 
Conspires with power, whose cause must 

not be ill. 

And whilst distraught ambition com- 
passes. 

And is encompassed; whilst as craft de- 
ceives. 

And is deceived : whilst man doth ransack 
man. 

And builds on blood, and rises by distress ; 

And the inheritance of desolation leaves 

To great-expecting hopes : he looks there- 
on. 

As from the shore of peace, with unwet 
eye, 

And bears no venture in impiety. 

Thus, madam, fares that man, that hath 

prepared 
A rest for his desires ; and sees all things 
Beneath him ; and hath learned this book 

of man, 
Full of the notes of frailty ; and compared 
The best of glory with her sufferings : 
By whom, I see, you labor all you can 
Toplantyourheart ; andset your thoughts 

as near 
His glorious mansion, as your powers can 

bear. 

Which, madam, are so soundly fashioned 
By that clear judgment, that hath carried 

you 
Beyond the feeble limits of your kind. 
As they can stand against the strongest 

head 
Passion can make ; inured to any hue 
The world can cast : it cannot cast that 

mind 
Out of her fonn of goodness, that doth see 
Both what the best and worst of earth 

can be. 

Which makes, that whatsoever here be- 
falls. 

You in the region of yourself remain : 

Where no vain breath of the impudent 
molests 

That hath secured within the brazen walls 



WILLIAM BYRU. 



Of a clear conscience, that (without all 
stain) 

Rises in peace, in innocency rests ; 

Whilst all that Malice from without pro- 
cures , 

Shows her own ugly heart, but hurts not 
yours. 

And whereas none rejoice more in revenge, 
Than women use to do ; yet you well 

know. 
That wrong is better checked by being 
contemned, 
'han being pursued; leaving to him to 

avenge. 
To whom it appertains. Wherein you show 
How worthily your clearness hath con- 
demned 
Base malediction, living in the dark. 
That at the rays of goodness still doth 
bark. 

Knowing the heart of man is set to be 
The centre of this world, about the which 
These revolutions of disturbances 
Still roll ; where all the aspects of misery 
Predominate : whose strong effects are 

such. 
As he must bear, being powerless to re- 
dress : 
And that unless above himself he can 
Erect himself, how poor a thing is man. 



WILLIAM BYRD. 

[1340-1623.] 

MY MIND TO ME A KINGDOM IS. 

My mind to me a kingdom is ; 

Such perfect joy therein I find 
As far exceeds all earthly bliss 

That God or Nature hath assigned ; 
Though mucli I want that most would 

have. 
Yet still my mind forbids to crave. 

Content I live ; this is my stay, — 
I seek no more than may suffice. 

I press to bear no haughty sway ; 

Look, what I lack my mind supplies. 

Lo ! thus 1 triumph like a king, 

Content with that my mind doth bring. 



I see how plenty surfeits oft, 
And hasty climbers soonest fall ; 

I see that such as sit aloft 

Mishap doth threaten most of all. 

These get with toil, and keep with fear ; 

Such cares my mind could never bear. 

No princely pomp nor wealthy store. 

No force to win the victory, 
No wily wit to salve a sore, 

No .shape to win a lover's eye, — 
To none of these I yield as thrall ; 
For why, my mind despiseth all. 

Some have too much, yet still they crave ; 

1 little have, yet seek no more. 
They are but poor, though much they 
have ; 

And I am rich with little store. 
They poor, I rich ; they beg, I give ; 
They lack, I lend; they pine, 1 live. 

I laugh not at another's loss, 
I grudge not at another's gain ; 

No worldly wave my mind can toss ; 
I brook that is another's bane. 

T fear no foe, nor fawn on friend ; 

I loathe not life, nor dread mine end. 

I joy not in no earthly bliss ; 

I weigh not Croesus' wealth a straw ; 
For care, I care not what it is ; 

1 fear not fortune's fatal law ; 
My mind is such as may not move 
For beauty bright, or force of love. 

I wish but what T have at will ; 

I wander not to seek for more ; 
I like the plain, I climb no hill ; 

In greatest storms I sit on shore. 
And laugh at them that toil in vain 
To get what must be lost again. 

I kiss not where I wish to kill ; 

I feign not love where most I hate ; 
I break no sleep to win my will ; 

I wait not at the mighty's gate. 
I scorn no poor, I fear no rich ; 
I feel no want, nor have too much. 

The court nor cart I like nor loathe ; 

Extremes are counted worst of all ; 
The golden mean betwixt them both 

Doth surest sit, and fears no fall ; 
This is my choice ; for why, I find 
No wealth is like a quiet mind. 



16 



SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 



My wealth is health ami ijcrfei-t ease ; 

My conscience clciir my chief defence ; 
I never seek by brihcs to" please, 

Nor by desert to give otfenee. 
Tims do I live, thus will I die; 
"Would all did so as well as 1 J 



WILLIAM SIIAKESPEAIIE. 



[1564- i6i6.] 

SONGS. 

ARIEL'S SONG. 



lurk I ; 



WilEKE the bee sucks, the 
In a cowslip's bell 1 lie ; 
There I couch when owls do cry ; 
On the bat's back 1 do fly. 
After summer merrily, 
Mei-rily, merrily, shall I live now, 
Under tiie blossom that hangs on the 
bough. 



THE FAIRY TO PUCK. 

Over hill, over dale, 

Thorough bush, thorough brier, 

Over park, over pale, 

Thorough flood, thorough fire, 

I do wander everywhere. 

Swifter than the moon's sphere. 

And I serve the Fairy Queen, 

To dew her orbs upon the green ; 

The cowslips tall her pensioners be. 

In their gold coats spots you see, — 

Those be rubies, fairy favors ; 

In those freckles live their savor.s. 

I must go seek some dew-drops liere, 

And hang a pearl in every cowslip's ear. 



AMIENS'S SONG. 

Blow, blow, thou winter wind, 
Tliou art not so unkind 

As man's ingratitude ; 
Thy tooth is not so keen. 
Because thou art not seen. 

Although thy breath be rude. 

Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky, 
That dost not bite so nigh 
As benefits forgot : 



Though thou the waters warp, 
Thy sting is not so sharp 
As friend remembered not. 



A SEA DIRGE. 

Full fathom five tliy father lies : 

Of liis bones are coral made; 
Those are pearls that weie his eyes : 

Nothing of him that doth fade, 
But doth suffer a sea-change 
Into something rich and strange. 
Sea-nymphs liourly ring his knell: 
Hark ! now I hear them, — 
Ding, dong, bell. 



HARK I HARKl THE LARK! 

Hakk ! hark ! the lark at lieaven's gate 
sing.s, 

And Phoebus 'gins arise. 
His steeds to water at those springs 

On chaliced flowers tiuit lies ; 
And winking Mary-buds begin 

To ope their golden eyi's; 
With everytliiug that jiretty bin ; 

My lady sweet, arise. 



UNDER THE GREENWOOD-TREE. 

Under the greenwood-tree 
Who loves to lie with me. 
And tune his merry note 
Unto the sweet bird's throat. 
Come hither, come hither, come hither; 
Here shall he see 
No enemy. 
But winter and rough weather. 

Who doth ambition shun. 
And loves to live i' tlie sun. 
Seeking the food he eats. 
And pleased with what he gets. 
Come hither, come hither, come hither ! 
Here shall he see 
No enemy. 
But ^vinter and rough weather. 



DIRGE FOR FIDELE. 

Fear no more the heat 0' the sun. 
Nor the furious winter's I'ages; 
Thou thy worldly task liast done. 
Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages : 



WILLIAM SHAKESPEAEE. 



.17 



Golden lads and girls all mnst, 

As chimney-sweepers, come to dust. 

Fear no more the frown o' the great, 
Thou art past the tyrant's stroke ; 
Care no more to clotl^, and eat ; 
To thee the reed is as the oak : 
The sceptre, learning, physic, mnst 
All follow this, and come to dust. 

Fear no more the lightning flash, 
Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone ; 
Fear not slander, censure rash ; 
Thou hast finished joy and moan : 
All lovers young, all lovers must 
Consign to thee, and come to dust. 

No exerciser harm thee ! 
Nor no witchcraft charm thee! 
Ghost unlaid forbear thee ! 
Nothing ill come near thee ! 
^uiet consummation have ; 
And renowned be thy grave. 



When in disgrace with fortune and 
men's eyes, 

I all alone beweep my outcast state. 

And trouble deaf heaven with my boot- 
less cries, 

And look'upon myself, and curse my fate. 

Wishing me like to one more rich in 
hope. 

Featured like him, like him with friends 
possessed, 

Desiring this man's art, and that man's 
scope. 

With what I most enjoy contented least ; 

Yet in these thoughts myself almost de- 
spising, 

Haply I think on thee, — and then my 
state 

(Like to the lark at break of day arising 

From sullen earth) sings hymns at heav- 
en's gate ; 
For thy sweet love remembered, such 

wealth brings. 
That then I scorn to change my state 
with kings. 



Whex to the sessions of sweet silent 

thought 
I summon up remembrance of things past, 
1 sigh the lack of many a thing I sought, 



And with old woes new wail my dear 

time's waste : 
Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow, 
For precious friends hid in death's date- 
less night. 
And weep afresh love's long-since-can- 
celled woe. 
And moan the expense of many a van- 
ished sight. 
Then can I grieve at grievances foregone, 
And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er 
The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan. 
Which I new pay as if not paid before. 
But if the while L think on thee, dear 

friend. 
All losses are restored, and sorrows 
end. 



That time of year thou mayst in me be 
hold 

When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do 
hang 

Upon those boughs which shake against 
the cold, 

Bare ruined choirs, where late the sweet 
birds sang. 

In me thou seest the twilight of such day, 

As after sunset fadeth in the west. 

Which by and by black night doth take 
away. 

Death's second self, that seals up all in 
rest. 

In me thou seest the glowing of such 
fire. 

That on the ashes of his youth doth lie, 

As the death-bed whereon it must ex- 
pire. 

Consumed with that which it was nour- 
ished by. 
This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy 

love more strong, 
To love that well which thou must 
leave erelong. 



They that have power to hurt and will 
do none. 

That do not do the thing they most do 
show. 

Who, moving others, are themselves as 
stone. 

Unmoved, cold, and to temptation slow ; 

They rightly do inherit heaven's graces. 

And husband nature's riches from ex- 
pense ; 



18 



SONGS OF THREE CENTUEIES. 



They are the lords and owners of their 

faces, 
Others but stewards of their excellence. 
The summer's flower is to the summer 

sweet, 
Though to itself it only live and die ; 
But if that flower with base infection 

meet, 
The basest weed outbraves his dignity : 
For sweetest things turn sourest by 

their deeds ; 
Lilies that fester smell far worse than 
weeds. 



Alar, 'tistrue, Ihavegone hereandthere, 
And made myself a motley to the view, 
Gored mine own thoughts, sold cheap 

what is most dear, 
Made old ofl'ences of aff'ections new. 
Most true it is, that I have looked on 

truth 
Askance and strangely ; but, by all above, 
These blenches gave my heart another 

youth. 
And worse essays proved thee my best of 

love. 
Now all is done, save what shall have no 

end: 
Mine appetite I never more will grind 
On newer proof, to try an older friend, 
A God in love, to whom I am confined. 
Then give me welcome, next my heaven 

the best. 
Even to tliy pure and most most loving 

breast. 



Lf.t me not to the marriage of true minds 
Admit impediments. Love is not love 
Which alters when it alteration finds. 
Or bends with the remover to remove ; 
no ; it is an ever-fixed mark. 
That looks on tempests, and is never 

shaken ; 
It is the star to everj' wandering bark, 
"Whose worth 's unknown, although his 

height be taken. 
Love 's not Time's fool, though rosy lips 

and cheeks 
"Within his bending sickle's compass 

come ; 
Love alters not with his brief hours and 

weeks, 
But bears it out even to the edge of doom. 
If this be error, and upon me proved, 
I never writ, nor no man ever loved. 



No! Time, thou shalt not boast that I 

do change : 
Thy pyramids built up with newer might 
To me are nothing novel, nothingstrange ; 
They are but dressings of a former sight. 
Our dates are brief, and therefore we 

admire 
"What thou dost foist upon us that is old ; 
And rather make them horn to our desire, 
Than think that we before have heard 

them told. 
Thy registers and thee I both defj', 
Not wonderingat thejiresentnor thepast ; 
For thy records and what we see do lie, 
Made more or less by thy continual haste : 
This I do vow, and this shall ever be, 
I will be true, despite thy scythe and 
thee. 



BEN JONSON. 

[1574- 1637.] 

THE NOBLE NATURE. 

It is not growing like a tree 
In bulk, doth make man better be ; 
Or standing long an oak, three hundred 

year. 
To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sere : 
A lily of a day 
Is fairer far in May, 
Although it fall and die that night, — 
It was the plant and fiower of Light. 
In small proportions we just beauties see ; 
And in short measures life may perlect be. 



SONG OF HESPERUS. 

Queen, and huntress, chaste and fair. 
Now the sun is laid to sleep, 
Seated in thy silver chair. 
State in wonted manner keep : 
Hesperus entreats thy light, 
Goddess excellently bright. 

Earth, let not thy envious shade 

Dare itself to interpose ; 

Cynthia's shining orb was made 

Heaven to clear, when day did close : 
Bless us then with wished sight, 
Goddess excellently bright. 



UNKNOWN. 



19 



Lay thy bow of pearl apart, 

And thy crystal shining quiver; 

Give unto the flying hart 

Space to breathe, liow short soever : 
Thou that niakest a day of night, 
Goddess excellently bright. 



ON LUCY, COUNTESS OF BEDFORD. 

This morning, timely rapt with holy fire, 
I thought to form unto my zealous Muse, 
What kind of creature I could most desire, 
To honor, serve;, and love ; as poets use, 
I meant to make her fair, and free, and 
wise. 
Of greatest blood, and yet more good 
than great ; 
I meant the day-star should not brighter 
rise. 
Nor lend like influence from his lucent 
seat. 
I meant she should be courteous, facile, 
sweet, 
Hating that solemn vice of gi'eatness, 
pride ; 
I meant each softest virtue there should 
meet. 
Fit in that softer bosom to reside. 
Only a leai-ned and a manly soul 

I purposed her; that should, with 

even powers. 

The rock, the spindle, and the shears 

control 

Of Destiny, and spin her own free hours. 

Such when I meant to feign, and wished 

to see. 
My Muse bade, Bedford write, and that 
was she. 



THE SWEET NEGLECT. 

Still to be neat, still to be drest, 

As you were going to a feast: 

Still to be powdered, still perfumed : 

Lady, it is to be presumed, 

Though art's hid causes are not found, 

All is not sweet, all is not sound. 

Give me a look, give me a face, 

That makes simplicity a grace ; 

Robes loosely flowing, hair as free : 

Such sweet neglect more taketh me, 

Than all the adulteries of art. 

That strike mine eyes, but not my heart. 



HOW NEAR TO GOOD IS WHAT 13 FAIR 1 

How near to good is what is fair ! 

Which we no sooner see. 
But with the lines and outward air 

Our senses taken be. 
We wish to see it still, and prove 

What ways we may deserve ; 
We court, we praise, we more than love, 

We are not grieved to serve. 



EPITAPH ON ELIZABETH L. H. 

WoULDST thou hear what man can say 

In a little? — reader, stay ! 

Underneath this stone doth lie 

As much beauty as could die, — 

Which in life did harbor give 

To more virtue than doth live. 

If at all she had a fault, 

Leave it buried in this vault. 

One name was Elizabeth, — 

The other, let it sleep with death. 

Fitter where it died to tell. 

Than that it lived at all. Farewell ! 



UNKNOAVN. 

[Before 1649.] 
LOVE WILL FIND OUT THE WAY. 

OvEK the mountains, 

And under the waves, 
Over the fountains, 

And under the graves, 
Under floods which are deepest. 

Which Neptune obey, 
Over rocks which are steepest. 

Love will find out the way. 

Where there is no place 

For the glow-worm to lie. 
Where there is no place 

For the receipt of a fly, 
Where the gnat dares not venture, 

Lest lierself fast she lay, 
If Love come he will enter. 

And find out the way. 

If that he were hidden, 
And all men tliat are. 

Were strictly forbidden 
That place to declare; 



20 



SONGS OF THEEE CENTURIES. 



Winds that have no abidings, 

Pitying their delay, 
Would come and bring him tidings, 

And direct him the way. 

If the earth should part him, 

He would gallop it o'er ; 
If the seas should o'erthwart him. 

He would swim to the shore. 
Should his love become a swallow, 

Through the air to stray. 
Love will lend wings to follow, 

And will find out the way. 

There is no striving 

To cross his intent, 
There is no contriving 

His plots to prevent ; 
But if once the message greet him, 

That his true love doth stay. 
If death should come and meet him, 

Love will find out the way. 



UNKNOWN. 

[Before i68g.] 
MAY-DAY SONG. 

Remember us poor Mayers all ! 

And thus do we begin 
To lead our lives in righteousness. 

Or else we die in sin. 

We have been rambling all the night. 

And almost all the day ; 
And now returned back again, 

We have brought you a branch of May. 

A branch of May we have brought you. 
And at your door it stands : 

It is but a sprout, 

But it 's well budded out 
By the work of our Lord's hands. 

The heavenly gates are open wide, 

Our paths are beaten plain ; 
And if a man be not too far gone, 

He may return again. 

The moon shines bright, and the stars 
give a light, 
A little before it is day ; 
So God bless you all, both great and 
small, 
And send you a joyful May ! 



UNKNOWN. 

[Before 1649.] 
BEGONE DULL CARE 1 

Begone dull care ! 

1 prithee begone from me : 
Begone dull care ! 

Thou and 1 can never agree. 
Long while thou hast been tarrying here. 

And fain thou wouldst nie kill ; 
But i' faith, dull care. 

Thou never shalt have thy will. 

Too much care 

Will make a young man gray ; 
Too much care 

Will turn an old man to clay. 
My wife shall dance, and I will sing, 

So merrily pass the day ; 
For 1 hold it is the wisest thing, 

To drive dull care away. 

Hence, dull care, 

I '11 none of thy company; 
Hence, dull care. 

Thou art no pair for me. 
We '11 hunt the wild boar through the 
wold, 

So merrily pass the day ; 
And then at night, o'er a cheerful bowl, 

W^i '11 drive dull care away. 



BISHOP EICHAED COEBETT. 

[1582-1635.] 

FAREWELL TO THE FAIRIES. 

Farewell rewards and fairies ! 

Good housewifes now may say. 
For now foul sluts in dairies 

Do fare as well as they. 
And though they sweep their hearths no 
less 

Than maids were wont to do ; 
Yet who of late, for cleanliness. 

Finds sixpence in her shoe ? 

Lament, lament, old Abbeys, 

The fairies' lost command ; 
They did but change yniests' babies. 

But some have changed your land ; 
And all your children sprung from thence 

Are now grown Puritans ; 



UNKNOWN. 



21 



Who live as changelings ever since, 
For love of your domains. 

At morning and at evening both, 

You merry were and glad, 
So little care of sleep or sloth 

These pretty ladies had ; 
When Tom came home from labor, 

Or Cis to milking rose, 
Then merrily went their tabor, 

And nimbly went their toes. 

Witness those rings and roundelays 

Of theirs, which yet remain, 
Were footed in Queen Mary's days 

On many a grassy plain ; 
But since of late Elizabeth, 

And later, James came in, 
They never danced on any lieath 

As when the time hatli been. 

By which we note the fairies 

Weie of the old profession, 
Their songs were Ave-Maries, 

Their dances were procession : 
But now, alas ! they all are dead, 

Or gone beyond the seas ; 
Or fartlier for religion fled ; 

Or else they take their ease. 

A tell-tale in their company 

They never could endure, 
And whoso kept not secretly 

Their mirth, was punished sure ; 
It was a just and Christian deed. 

To pinch such black and blue : 
0, how the commonwealth doth need 

Such justices as you ! 



UNKNOWN. 

[Before 1649 ] 
ROBIN GOODFELLOW. 

From Oberon, in fairy- land, 

The king of ghosts and shadows there, 
Mad Robin I, at his command. 

Am sent to view tlie night-sports here. 

What revel rout 

Is kept about. 
In every corner where I go, 

I will o'ersee. 

And merry be. 
And make good sport, with ho, ho, ho ! 



More swift than lightning can I fly 

About this airy welkin soon. 
And, in a minute's space, descry 

Each thing that 'sdone below the moon. 

There 's not a hag 

Or ghost shall wag. 
Or crv, 'ware goblins ! where I go ; 

But Robin I 

Their feasts will sjiy. 
And send them home with lio, ho, ho ! 

Whene'er such wanderers I meet, 

As from their night-sports they trudge 
home, 
With counterfeiting voice I greet. 
And call them on with me to roam : 
Through woods, through lakes ; 
Through bogs, through brakes; 
Or else, unseen, with them I go. 
All in the nick. 
To play some trick. 
And frolic it, with ho, ho, ho ! 

Sometimes I meet them like a man. 

Sometimes an ox, sometimes a hound; 
And to a horse I turn me can. 

To trip and trot about them round. 

But if to ride 

My back they stride, 
More swift than wind away I go. 

O'er hedge and lands. 

Through jiools and ponds, 
I hurry, laughing, ho, ho, ho ! 

When lads and lasses merry be. 

With possets and with junkets fine ; 
Unseen of all the company, 

I eat their cakes and sip their wine ! 

And, to make sport, 

I puff and snort : 
And out the candles I do blow : 

The maids I kiss. 

They shriek — Who 's this? 
I answer naught but ho, ho, ho ! 

Yet no\y and then, the maids to please. 

At midnight I card up their wool; 
And, while they sleep and take their 
ease. 
With wheel to threads their flax I pull. 
I grind at mill 
Their malt up still ; 
I dress their hemp ; I spin their tow ; 
If any wake. 
And would me take, 
I wend me, laughing, ho, ho, ho ! 



22 



SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES.' 



When any need to borrow aught, 

We lend them what they do require : 
And for the use demand we naught ; 
Our own is all we do desire. 
If to rejiay 
They do delay, 
Abroad amongst them then I go, 
And night by night, 
I them atfiight, 
With pinehings, dreams, and ho, ho, 
ho! 

When lazy queans have naught to do. 

But study how to cog and lie; 
To make debate and mischief too, 
'Twixt one another secretly : 
1 mark their gloze, 
And it disclose 
To them whom they have wronged so : 
When I have done 
I get me gone. 
And leave them scolding, ho, ho, 
ho! 

When men do traps and engines set 

lu loopholes, where the vermin creep, 
Who from their folds and houses get 
Their ducks and geese, and lambs and 
sheep ; 
I spy the gin. 
And enter in. 
And seem a vermin taken so ; 
But when they there 
Approach me near, 
I leaji out laughing, ho, ho, ho I 

By wells and rills, in meadows green, 

We nightly dance our heyday guise; 
And to our fairy king and queen, 

We chant our moonlight minsti'elsies. 

When larks 'gin sing. 

Away we fling ; 
And babes new-born steal as we go ; 

And elf in bed 

We leave in stead. 
And wend us laughing ho, ho, ho ! 

From hag-bred Merlin's time, have I 

Thus nightly revelled to and fro ; 
And for my pi-anks men call me by 
The name of Robin Goodfellow. 

Fiends, ghosts, and sprites. 

Who haunt the nights. 
The hags and goblins do me know; 

And beldames old 

My feats have told, 
So vale, vale ; ho, ho, ho ! 



UNKNOWN. 

[Before 1649.] 
EDOM O' GORDON. 

It fell about the Martinmas, 

When the wind blew slnill and cauld, 
Said Edom o' Gordon to his men, 

"We maun draw to a hauld. 

"And whatna hauld sail we draw to. 

My merry men and me? 
We will gae to the house of the Eodes, 

To see that fair ladye." 

The lady stood on her castle wa'. 
Beheld baith dale and down ; 

There she was aware of a host of men 
Came riding towards the town. 

"0 see ye not, my merry men a', 

see ye not what I see ? 
Methinks I see a host of men ; 

1 marvel who they be." 

She weened it had been her lovely lord, 

As he cam' riding hame ; 
It was the traitor, Edom o' Gordon, 

Wha recked nor sin nor shame. 

She had nae sooner buskit hersell. 

And putten on her gown, 
Till Edom 0' Gordon an' his men 

W^ere round about the town. 

They had nae sooner supper set, 

Nae sooner said the grace. 
But Edom o' Gordon an' his men 

Were lighted about the place. 

The lady ran up to her tower-head, 

As fast as she could hie, 
To see if by her fair speeches 

She could wi' him agree. 

" Come doun to me, ye lady gay. 
Come doun, come doun to me ; 

This night sail ye lig within mine arms. 
To-morrow my bride sail be." 

" I winna come down, ye fause Gordon, 
I winna come down to thee ; 

I winna forsake my ain dear lord, — 
And he is na far frae me." 



UNKNOWN. 23 


" Gie owre your house, ye lady fair, 


But on the point o' Gordon's spear 


Gie owre your house to me ; 


She gat a deadly fa'. 


Or I sail buru yoursell therein, 




But aud your babies three." 


bonnie, bonnie was her mouth, 




And cherry were her cheeks. 


" I winna gie owre, ye fause Gordon, 


And clear, clear was her yellow hair, 


To nae sic traitor as thee ; 


Whereon the red blood dreeps. 


And if ye burn my ain dear babes. 




My lord sail mak' ye dree. 


Then wi' his spear he turned her owre ; 




gin her face was wan ! 


" Now reach my pistol, Glaud, my man, 


He said, " Ye are the first that e'er 


And charge ye weel my gun ; 


I wished alive again." 


For, but an 1 pierce that bluidy butcher. 




My babes, we been undone !" 


He cam' and lookit again at her ; 




gin her skin was white ! 


She stood upon her castle wa', 


" I might hae spared that bonnie face 


And let twa bullets flee : 


To hae been some man's delight." 


She missed that bluidy butcher's heart, 




And only razed his knee. 


" Busk and boun, my merry men a', 




For ill dooms I do guess ; — 


"Set fire to the house !" quo' fause Gordon, 


I cannot look on that bonnie face 


Wud wi' dule and ire : 


As it lies on the grass." 


"Fause ladye, ye sail rue that shot 




As ye burn in the fire ! " 


" AVha looks to freits, my master dear, 




Its freits will follow them ; 


"Wae worth, wae worth ye, Jock,myman ! 


Let it ne'er be said that Edom o' Gordon 


I paid ye weel your fee ; 


Was daunted by a dame." 


Why pu' ye out the grund-wa' stane. 




Lets in the reek to me ? 


But when the ladye saw the fire 




Come flaming o'er her head. 


"And e'en wae worth ye, Jock, my man ! 


She wept, andkissed her children twain. 


I paid ye weel your hire ; 


Says, "Bairns, we been but dead." 


Why pu' ye out the grund-wa' stane. 




To me lets in the fire?" 


The Gordon then his bugle blew, 




And said, " Awa', awa' ! 


"Ye paid me weel my hire, ladye. 


This house o' the Rodes is a' in a flame ; 


Ye paid me weel my fee : 


I hauld it time to ga'." 


But now I 'm Edom o' Gordon's man, — 




Maun either do or dee." 


And this way lookit her ain dear lord. 




As he came owre the lea ; 


then bespake her little son, 


He saw his castle a' in a lowe. 


Sat on the nurse's knee : 


Sae far as he could see. 


Says, "0 mitherdear, gie owre this house. 




For the reek it smothers me." 


" Put on, put on, my wighty men. 




As fast as ye can dri'e ! 


" I wad gie a' my goud, my bairn. 


For he that 's hindmost o' the thrang 


Sae wad I a' my fee. 


Sail ne'er get good o' me." 


For ae blast o' the western wind. 




To blaw the reek frae thee." 


Then some they rade, and some they ran. 




Out-owre the grass and bent ; 


then bespake her daughter dear, — 


But ere the foremost could win up. 


She was baith jimp and sma' : 


Baith lady and babes were brent. 


" row' me in a pair o' sheets, 




And tow me o'er the wa' !" 


And after the Gordon he is gane. 




Sae fast as he might dri'e ; 


They row'd her in a pair o' sheets. 


And soon i' the Gordon's foul heart's blude 


And tow'd her owre the wa' ; 


He 's wrokeu his fair ladye. 



24 



SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 



UNKNOWN. 



TAKE THY ATJLD CLOAK ABOUT THEE. 

Ix winter, when the rain rained caukl, 

And frost and snow were on the hill, 
And Boreas witli his blasts sae bauld 

Was threat'ning all our kye to kill ; 
Then Bell, my wife, wha loves not strife. 

She said to me right hastilie, 
"Get up, gudenian, save Grumraie's life. 

And take thy auld cloak about thee ! 

"Cow Crunimie is a useful cow. 

And she is come of a good kin" ; 
Aft has she wet the bairnies' mou', 

And I am laith that she should pine : 
Get up, gudeman, it is fu' time ! 

The sun shines fi'ae the lift sae hie ; 
Sloth never made a gracious end, — 

Gae, take thy auld cloak about thee !" 

" My cloak was once a gude gray cloak, 

When it was fitting for my wear; 
But now it 's scantly worth a groat. 

For I hae worn 't this thirty year : 
Let 's spend the gear that we hae won. 

We little ken the day we '11 dee ; 
Then I '11 be proud, since I hae sworn 

To hae a new cloak about me." 

" In days when our King Robert reigned. 

His breeches cost but half a crown ; 
He said they were a groat too dear, 

And ca'd the tailor thief and loun. 
He was the king that wore the crown, 

And thou the man of low degree : 
It 's pride puts a' the country down, 

Sae take thy auld cloak about thee ! " 

" Bell, my wife, why dost thou flout? 

Now is now, and then was then. 
Seek anywhere the world throughout, 

Thou ken'st not clowns from gentle- 
men. 
They are clad in black, green, yellow, 
and gray, 

Sae far above their ain degree: 
Once in my life 1 '11 do as they. 

For I '11 have a new cloak about me." 

" Gudeman, I wot it 's thirty year 
Sin' we did ane anither ken. 

And, we hae had atween us twa 
Of lads and bonnie lasses ten ; 

Now they are women grown and men, 
I wish and pray weel may they be : 



If thou wilt prove a good husband. 
E'en take thy auld cloak about thee." 

Bell, my wife, she loves not strife, 

But she will rule me if she can : 
And oft, to lead a quiet life, 

1 'm forced to yield, though I 'm gude- 
man. 
It 's not for a man with a woman to 
threape 

Unless he first give o'er the plea : 
As we began so will we leave. 

And I '11 take my auld cloak about rae. 



UNKNOAYN. 

THE BARRING O' THE DOOR. 

It fell about the Martinmas time, 
And a gay time it was than. 

When our gudewife got puddings to 
make, 
And she boiled them in the pan. 

The wind sae cauld blew east and north, 

It blew into the floor : 
Quoth our gudeman to our gudewife, 

' ' Gae out and bar the door ! " 

" My hand is in my huswif's kap, 

Gudeman, as ye may see; 
An' it should nae be barred this hundred 
year. 

It 's no be barred for me." 

They made a paction 'tween them twa. 

They made it firm and sure. 
That the first word whae'er should speak 

Should rise and bar the door. 

Then by there came twa gentlemen 

At twelve o'clock at night ; 
And thev could neither see house nor 
hall. 

Nor coal nor candle light. 

And first they ate the white puddings. 
And then they ate the black ; 

Though muckle thought the gudewife to 
hersel". 
Yet ne'er a word she spak'. 

Then said the one unto the other, 
"Here, man, tak' ye my knife ! 



THOMAS CAREW. — WILLIAM BROWNE. 



25 



Do ve tak' aff the auld man's beard, 
And I '11 kiss the gudewife." 

" But there 's nae water in the house, 
And what shall we do than?" 

" What ails ye at the puddiu' luoo 
That boils into the pan?" 

0, uj) then started our gudeman, 

And an angry man was he : 
" Will ye kiss my wife before my een, 

And scaud me wi' puddin' bree ? " 

Then up and started our gudewife, 
Gied three skips on the floor : 

"Gudeman, ye 've spoken the foremost 
word, — 
Get up and bar the door !" 



THOMAS CAREW. 
[1589- 1639.] 

HE THAT LOVES A ROSY CHEEK. 

He that loves a rosy cheek, 

Or a coral lip admires. 
Or from starlike eyes doth seek 

Fuel to maintain his fires ; 
As old Time makes these decay, 
So his flames must waste away. 

But a smooth and steadfast mind, 
Gentle thoughts, and calm desires. 

Hearts with equal love combined. 
Kindle never-dying fires; — 

Where these are not, I desj)ise 

Lovely cheeks or lips or eyes. 



WILLIAM BROWNE. 

[1590- 1645.] 

THE SIRENS' SONG. 

Steer, hither, steer your winged pines. 

All beaten mariners : 
Here lie undiscovered mines, 

A prey to passengers : 



Perfumes far sweeter than the best 
That make the phrenix urn and nest : 

Fear not your ships, 
Nor any to oppose you save our lips : 

But come on shore. 
Where no joy dies till love has gotten 

more. 

For swelling waves our panting breasts, 
Where never storms arise. 

Exchange ; and be awhile our guests : 
For stars, gaze on our eyes. 

The compass, love shall hourly sing. 

And, as lie goes about the ring. 
We will not miss 

To tell each point he nameth with a kiss. 



SONG. 

Shall I tell you whom I love ? 

Hearken then awhile to me. 
And if such a woman move 

As I now shall versify, 
Be assured, 't is she, or none, 

hat 1 love, and love alone. 



Nature did her so much right. 
As she scorns the help of art. 

In as many virtues dight 

As e'er yet embraced a heart. 

So much good so truly tried, 

Some for less were deified. 

Wit she hath, without desire 

To make known how much she hath ; 
And her anger flames no higher 

Than may fitly sweeten wrath. 
Full of pity as niay be. 
Though perhaps not so to me. 

Eeason masters every sense, 

And her virtues grace her birth : 

Lovely as all excellence. 

Modest in her most of mirth : 

Likelihood enough to prove 

Only \vortli could kindle love. 

Such she is ; and if you know 
Such a one as I have sung, — 

Be she brown, or fair, or so. 

That she be but somewhile young, — 

Be assured, 't is she, or none. 

That I love, and love alone. 



26 



SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 



SIR EGBERT AYTON. 

[1570- 163S.] 

FAIR AND UNWORTHY. 

I DO confess thou 'rt smooth and fair, 
And I niiglit have gone near to love 
thee, 
Had I not found the lightest prayer 
That lips could speak, had power to 
move thee : 
But I can let thee now alone, 
As worthy to be loved by none. 

I do confess thou 'rt sweet ; yet find 
Thee such an unthrift of thy sweets, 

Thy favors are hut like the wind. 
That kisses everything it meets ; 

And since thou canst with more than one, 

Thou 'rt worthy to be kissed by none. 

The morning rose that untouched stands 
Armed witli her briers, how sweetly 
smells ! 
But plucked and strained through ruder 
hands. 
No more her sweetness with her dwells. 
But scent and beauty both are gone, 
And leaves fall from her, one by one. 

Such fate, erelong, will thee betide, 
When thou hast handled been 
awhile, — 

Like sere flowers to he thrown aside : 
And I will sigh, while some will smile. 

To see thy love for more than one 

Hath brought thee to be loved by none. 



WILLIAM STRODE. 

[1600- 1644.] 

MUSIC. 

LTTLL me, lull me, charming air ! 

My senses rock with wonder sweet : 
Like snow on wool thy fallings are ; 
Soft, like a spirit's, are thy feet ! 
Grief who need fear 
That hath an ear? 
Down let him lie 
And slumbering die. 
And change his soul for harmony ! 



THOMAS HEYWOOD. 

[About 1640.] 
GOOD-MORROW. 

Pack clouds away, and welcome day, 

With night we banish sorrow ; 
Sweet air, blow soft ; mount, larks, aloft. 

To give my love good-morrow. 
Wings from the wind to please her mind, 

Notes from the lark I '11 borrow ; 
Bird, prune thy wing ; nightingale, sing, 

To give my love good-morrow. 

Wake from thy nest, robin redbreast ; 

Sing, birds, in every furrow ; 
And from each hill let music shrill 

Give my i'air love good-morrow. 
Blackbird and thrush in every bush, 

Stare, linnet, and cock-sjiarrow ; 
You pretty elves, among yourselves. 

Sing my fair love good-morrow. 



SEARCH AFTER GOD. 

I SOUGHT thee round about, O thou my 
God! 
In thine abode. 
I said unto the earth, "Speak, art thou 
he?" 
She answered me, 
"I am not." I inquired of creatures all, 

In general. 
Contained therein. They with one voice 

proclaim 
That none amongst them challenged such 
a name. 

I asked the seas and all the deeps below, 

My God to know ; 
I asked the reptiles and whatever is 

In the abyss, — 
Even from the shrimp to the leviathan 

Inquiry ran ; 
But in those deserts which no line can 

sound. 
The God I sought for was not to be found. 

I asked the air if that were he ! but lo ! 

It told me " No." 
I from the towering eagle to the wren 

Demanded then 
If any feathered fowl 'mongst them were 
such ; 

But they all, much 




From the towering eagle to the wren." — Page 



HENRY KING. 



27 



Offended with mj' question, in full choir, 
Answered, "To i\nd thy God thoii must 
look higher." 

I asked the heavens, sun, moon, and 
stars ; hut they 
Said, " We obey 
The God thou seekest." I asked what 
eye or ear 
Could see or hear, — ■ 
What in the world I might descry or 
know 
Above, below; 
With an unanimous voice, all these things 

said, 
" We are not God, but we by him were 
made." 

I asked the world's great universal mass 

If that God was; 
Which with a mighty and strong voice 
replied. 
As stupefied, — 
*' I am not he, man ! for know that I 

By him on high 
AVas fashioned first of nothing ; thus 

instated 
And swayed by him by whom I was 
created." 

I sought the court ; but smooth-tongued 
flattery there 
Deceived each ear; 
In the thronged city there was selling, 
buying. 
Swearing, and lying ; 
r tlie country, craft in simpleness ar- 
rayed, 
And then I said, — 
" Vain is my search, although my pains 

be great ; 
Where my God is there can be no deceit." 

A scrutiny within myself I then 

Even thus began : 
" man, what art thou ? " What more 
could I say 

Than dust and clay, — 
Frail, mortal, fading, a mere puff, a blast, 

That cannot last ; 
Enthroned to-day, to-morrow in an urn. 
Formed from that earth to which I must 
return ? 

I asked myself what this great God might 
lie 
That fashioned me. 



I answered : The all-potent, sole, im- 
mense. 
Surpassing sense ; 
Unspeakable, inscrutable, eternal. 

Lord over all ; 
The only terrible, strong, just, and true. 
Who hath no end, and no beginning 
knew. 

He is the well of life, for he doth give 

To all that live 
Both breath and being ; he is the Creatoi 

Both of the water, 
Earth, air, and fire. Of all things that 
subsist 
He hath the list, — 
Of all the heavenly host, or what earth 

claims. 
He keeps the scroll, and calls them by 
their names. 

And now, my God, by thine illumining 
grace, 
Tliy glorious face 
(So far forth as it may discovered be) 

Methinks I see ; 
And though invisible and infinite, 

To human sight 
Thou, in thy mercy, justice, truth, ap- 

pearest, 
In which, to our weak sense, thou comest 
nearest. 

0, make us apt to seek and quick to find. 

Thou, God, most kind ! 

Give us love, hope, and faith, in thee to 

trust, 

Thou, God, most just ! 

Eemit all our offences, we entreat. 

Most good ! most great ! 

Grant that our willing, though unworthy 

quest 
May, through thy grace, admit us 
'mongst the blest. 



HENRY KING. 

[1591-1669.] 

SIC VITA. 

Like to the falling of a star. 
Or as the flights of eagles are ; 
Or like the fresh spring's gaudy hue, 
Or silver drops of morning dew ; 



28 



SONGS OF THEEE CENTUEIES. 



Or like a wind tliat chafes the flood, 
Or bubbles which on water stood : 
Even such is man, whose borrowed light 
Is straight called in, and paid to-night. 
The wind blows out, the bubble dies ; 
The spring entombed in autumn lies ; 
The dew dries up, the star is shot ; 
The flight is past, — and man forgot. 



Sleep on, my love, in thy cold bed, 

Never to be disquieted! 

My last good night ! Thou wilt not wake 

Till I thy fate shall overtake ; 

Till age, or grief, or sickness must 

Marry my body to that dust 

It so much loves, and fill the room 

My heart keeps empty in thy tomb. 

Stay for me there ! I will not fail 
To meet thee in that hollow vale. 
And think not much of my delay : 
I am already on the way, 
And follow thee with all the speed 
Desire can make, or sorrow breed. 
Each minute is a short degree, 
And every hour a step towards thee. 
At night, when I betake to rest. 
Next morn 1 rise nearer my west 
Of life, almost by eight hours' sail. 
Than wlien sleep breathed his di'owsy gale. 
Thus from the sun my vessel steers, 
And my day's compass downward bears : 
Nor latjor I to stem the tide 
Through which to thee I swiftly glide. 

'T is true, with shame and grief I yield, 

Thou, like the van, first took'st the field. 

And gotten hast the victory. 

In thus adventuring to die 

Before me, whose more years might crave 

A just precedence in the grave. 

But hark ! my pulse, like a soft drum. 

Beats my approach, tells thee I come: 

And slow howe'er my marches be, 

I shall at last sit down by thee. 

The thought of this bids me go on. 

And wait my dissolution 

"With ho]ie and comfort. Dear, forgive 

The crime, — I am content to live 

Divided, with but half a heart. 

Till we shall meet, and never part. 



MAEQUIS OF MONTROSE. 



I'LL NEVER LOVE THEE MORE. 

My dear and only love, I pray 

That little world of thee 
Be governed by no other sway 

But purest monarchy : 
For if confusion have a part. 

Which virtuous souls abhor, 
I '11 call a synod in my heart, 

And never love thee more. 

As Alexander I will reign. 

And I will reign alone ; 
My thoughts did evermore disdain 

A rival on my throne. 
He either fears his fate too much. 

Or his deserts are small, 
"Who dares not put it to the touch, 

To gain or lose it all. 



JAMES SHIRLEY. 

[1596-1666.] 

DEATH THE LEVELLER. 

The glories of our blood and state 

Are shadows, not substantial things ; 
There is no armor against fate ; 
Death lays his icy hand on kings : 
Sceptre and crown 
Must tumble down, 
And in the dust be equal made 
"With the poor crooked scythe and spade. 

Some men with swords may reap the field, 
And plant fresh laurels where they 
kill ; 
But their strong nerves at last must yield ; 
They tame but one another still : 
Early or late 
They stoop to fate, 
And must give up their murmuring breath 
"When they, pale captives, creep to death. 

The garlands wither on your brow ; 

Then boast nomore your mighty deeds ; 
Upon Death's purple altar now 

See where the victor- victim bleeds : 



SIR THOMAS BEOWXE. — RICHARD CRASHAW. 



29 



Your heads must come 

To the cokl tomb ; 
Only the actions of the just 
Smell sweet, and blossom in their dust. 



EDWARD HERBERT, (EARL OF 
CHERBURY.) 

[1581-1648] 



Walking thus towards a pleasant gi'ove. 

Which did, it seemed, in new delight 

The jileasures of the time unite 

To give a triumph to their love, — 

They stayed at last, and on the grass 

Eeposed so as o'er his breast 

She bowed her gracious head to rest, 

Such a weight as no burden was. 

Long their fixed eyes to heaven bent, 

Unchanged they did never move, 

As if so great and pure a love 

No glass but it could represent. 

" These eyes again thine eyes shall see. 

Thy hands again these hands infold, 

And all chaste pleasures can be told, 

Shall with us everlasting be. 

Let then no doubt, Celinda, touch. 

Much less your fairest mind invade ; 

Were not our souls immortal made, 

Our equal loves can make them such." 



SIR THOMAS BROWNE. 

[1605 -1682.] 

EVENING HYMN. 

The night is come ; like to the day. 
Depart not thou, great God, away. 
Let not my sins, black as the night, 
Eclipse the lustre of thy light. 
Keej) in my horizon : for to me 
The sun makes not the day, but thee. 
Thou whose nature cannot sleep. 
On my temples sentry keep : 
Guard nie 'gainst those watchful foes. 
Whose eyes are open while mine close. 
Let no dreams my head infest 
But such as Jacob's temples blest. 



'\Miilst I do rest, my soul advance ; 

Make my sleep a holy trance : 

That I may, my rest being wrought. 

Awake into some holy thought, 

And with as active vigor run 

My course, as doth the nimble sun. 

Sleep is a death ; 0, make me try, 

By sleeping, what it is to die : 

And as gently lay my head 

On my grave as now my bed. 

Howe'er I rest, great God, let me 

Awake again at last with thee. 

And thus assured, behold I lie 

Securely, or to wake or die. 

These are my drowsy days ; in vain 

I do now wake to sleep again : 

0, come that hour when I shall never 

Sleep thus again, but wake forever. 



RICHARD CRASHAW. 

[1605-1650.] 

WISHES. 

Whoe'er she be, 

Tliat not impossible She 

That shall command my heart and me ; 

Where'er she lie. 

Locked up from mortal eye 

In shady leaves of destiny. 

Till that ripe birth 

Of studied Fate stand forth. 

And teach her fair steps to our earth ; 

Till that divine 

Idea take a shrine 

Of crystal flesh, through which to shine 

— Meet you her, my Wishes, 

Bespeak her to my blisses. 

And be ye called, my absent kisses. 

T wish her beauty 

That owes not all its duty 

To gaudy tire, or glist'ring shoe-tie : 

Something more than 
Taffeta or tissue can, 
Or rampant feather, or rich fan. 



30 



SO^'GS OF THREE CENTURIES. 



A face that 's best 

By its own beauty drest, 

Aud can alone command the rest : 

A face made iip 

Out of no other shop 

Than what Nature's white hand sets ope. 

Sydneian showers 

Of sweet discourse, whose powers 

Can crown old Winter's head with flow- 



Whate'er delight 

Can make day's forehead bright 

Or give down to the wings of night. 

Soft silken hours, 

Open suns, shady bowers ; 

'Bove all, nothing within that lowers. 

Days, that need borrow 

No part of their good morrow 

From a fore-spent night of sorrow : 

Days, that in spite 

Of darkness, by the light 

Of a clear mind are day all night. 

Life, that dares send 
A challenge to his end ; 
And when it comes, says, "Welcome, 
friend." 

I wish her store 

Of worth may leave her poor 

Of wishes ; and I wish — no more. 

— Now, if Time knows 

That Her, whose radiant brows 

Weave them a garland of my vows ; 

Her that dares be 

What these lines wish to see: 

I seek no further, it is She. 

'T is She, and here 

Lo ! I unclothe and clear 

My wishes' cloudy character. 

Such worth as this is 
Shall fix my flying wishes, 
And determine them to kisses. 

Let her full glory, 

^ly fancies, fly before ye ; 

Be ye my Actions: — but her stoiy. 



Sm PtlCHARD LOVELACE. 

[1618-1658.] 

TO ALTHEA. 

When love with unconfined wings 

Hovers within n)y gates, 
And my divine Althea biings 

To whis]ier at my grates ; 
When I lie tangled in her hair, 

And fettered to her eye, 
The birds that wanton in the air 

Know no such liberty. 

Stone walls do not a prison make, 

Nor iron bars a cage ; 
Minds innocent and quiet take 

That for a hermitage : 
If I have freedom in n)y love. 

And in my soul am fi'ee, — 
Angels alone that soar above 

Enjoy such liberty. 



TO LTJCASTA. 

Tell me not, sweet, I am unkind. 

That from the nunnery 
Of thy chaste breast, and quiet mind. 

To war and arms i fly. 

True : a new mistress now I chase. 

The flrst foe in the field ; 
And with a stronger faith embrace 

A sword, a horse, a shield. 

Yet this inconstancy is such, 

As you too shall adore ; 
I could not love thee, dear, so much. 

Loved I not honor more. 



ROBERT HERRICK. 

[1591-1674.] 

TO DAFFODILS. 

Fatr Daffodils, we weep to see 
You haste away so soon : 

As yet the early-rising sun 
Has not attained his noon : 
Stay, stay, 




' Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright." — Pag 



GEORGE 


HERBERT. 31 


Until the hasting day 


No : 't is a fast to dole 


Has run 


Thy sheaf of wheat, 


But to the even song ; 


And meat, 


And, haAing prayed together, we 


Unto the hungry soul. 


Will go with you along. 






It is to fast from strife, 


We have short time to stay as you, 


From old debate 


We have as short a spring; 


And hate ; 


As quick a growth to meet decay. 


To circumcise thy life. 


As you, or anything. 




We die, 


To show a heart grief-rent ; 


As your hours do, and dry 


To starve thy sin. 


A way 


Not bin : 


Like to the summer's rain, 


And that 's to keep thy Lent. 


Or as the pearls of morning's dew, 




Ne'er to be found again. 
TO BLOSSOMS. 




GEORGE HERBERT. 


Fair pledges of a fruitful tree. 


[1593 -1633.] 


Why do ye fall so fast? 


VIRTUE. 


Your date is not so past. 


But you may stay yet here awhile, 
To blush and gently snule. 
And go at last. 


Sweet Day, so cool, so calm, so bright, 
The bridal' of the earth and sky. 
The dew shall weej. thy fall to-night ; 


What ! were ye born to be 


For thou must die. 


An hour or half's delight. 
And so to bid good-night ? 




Sweet Rose, whose hue, angry and brave, 


'T was pity Nature brought ye forth 


Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye. 


Merely to siiow your worth. 


Tliy root is ever in its grave, 


And lose you quite. 


And thou must die. 


But you are lovely leaves, where we 


Sweet Spring, full of sweet days and roses. 


May read how soon things luive 


A box where sweets compacted lie, 


Their end, tiiough ne'er so brave ; 


My music shows ye have your closes. 


And after they have shown their pride. 


And all must die. 


Like you, awhile, they glide 




Into the grave. 


Only a sweet and virtuous soul. 




Like seasoned timber, never gives ; 





But though the whole world turn to coal, 


TO KEEP A TRUE LENT. 


Then chiefly lives. 


Is this a fast, to keep 





Th^. larder lean. 




And clean 


THE FLOWER. 


From fat of veals and sheep ? 


HoAV fresh, Lord, how sweet and 


Is it to qnit the dish 


clean 


Of flesh, yet still 


Are thy returns ! e'en as the flowers in 


To fill 


spring; 


The platter high with fish? 


To which, besides their own demesne. 




The late-past frosts tributes of pleasure 


Is it to fast an hour, 


bring. 


Or rag'd to go. 


Grief melts away 


Or show 


Like snow in May. 


A downcast look, and sour? 


As if there were no such cold thing. 



32 



SOXGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 



Who would have thought my shriv- 
elled heart 
Could have recovered greenness ? It was 
gone 
Quite under ground; as flowers depart 
To see their mother-root, when they have 
blown ; 
Where they together, 
All the hard weather, 
Dead to the world, keep house un- 
known. 

These are thy wonders. Lord of power, 
Killing and (quickening, bringing down 
to hell 
And up to heaven in an hour ; 
Making a chiming of a passing bell. 
We say amiss, 
This or that is : 
Thy word is all, if we could spell. 

that I once past changing were, 
Fast in thy Paradise, where no flower 

can wither ! 
Many a spring I shoot up fair 
Off"ering at heaven, growing and groan- 
ing thither ; 
Nor doth my flower 
Want a spring-shower. 
My sins and I joining together. 

But while I grow in a straight line. 
Still upwards bent, as if heaven were 
mine own, 
Thy anger comes, and I decline : 
What frost to that ? what pole is not the 
zone 
Where all things burn, 
When thou dost turn. 
And the least frown of thine is shown ? 

And now in age I bud again. 
After so many deaths I live and write ; 

1 once more smell the dew and rain. 
And relish versing : my only Light, 

It cannot be 
That I am he 
On whom thy tempests fell all night. 

These are thy wonders, Lord of love, 
To make us see we are but flowers that 
glide ; 
Which when we once can find and 
prove, 
Thou hast a garden for us, where to bide. 
Who would be more. 
Swelling through store. 
Forfeit their Paradise by their pride. 



REST. 

When God at first made man, 
Having a glass of blessings standing by, 
"Let us," said he, "pour on him all we 

can : 
Let the world's riches, which dispersed lie, 

Contract into a span." 

So strength first made a way ; 
Then beauty flowed; then wisdom, honor, 

])leasure : 
When almost all was out, God made a stay, 
Perceiving that alone, of all his treasure. 

Rest in the bottom lay. 

" For if I should," said he, 
" Bestow this jewel also on my creature. 
He would adore my gifts instead of me. 
And rest in nature, not the God of nature ; 

So both should losers be. 

" Yet let him keep the rest. 
But keep them with repining restlessness : 
Let him be rich and weary, that at least, 
If goodness lead him not, yet weariness 

May toss him to my breast." 



HENRY VAUGHAN. 

[1614-1695.] 

THE BIRD. 

HiTHEK thou com'st. The busy wind 

all night 
Blew through thy lodging, where thy 

own warm wing 

Thy pillow was. Many a .sullen storm. 

For which coarse man seems much the 

fitter born, 

Eained on thy bed 

And harmless head ; 

And now, as fresh and cheerful as the 

light. 
Thy little heart in early hymns doth sing 
Unto that Providence whose unseen arm 
Curbed them, and clothed thee well and 

warm. 
All things that be praise Him ; and had 
Their lesson taught them when first 

made. 

So hills and valleys into singing break ; 
And though poor stones have neither 
speech nor tongue. 



GEORGE WITHER. 



33 



"While active winds and streams both run 

and speak, 
Yet stones are deep in admiration. 
Thus praise and prayer here beneath the 

sun 
Make lesser mornings, when the great 

are done. 

For each inclosed spirit is a star 

Inlightniiig his own little sphere. 
Whose light, though fetcht and borrowed 
from far, 
Both mornings makes and evenings 
there. 

But as these birds of light make a laud 
glad, 
Chirping their solemn matins on each 

tree ; 
So in the shades of night some dark 
fowls be. 
Whose heavy notes make all that hear 
them sad. 

The turtle then in palm-trees mourns, 
While owls and satyrs howl ; 

The pleasant land to brimstone turns, 
And all her streams grow foul. 

Brightness and mirth, and love and faith, 

all fly, 
Till the day-spring breaks forth again 

from hiffh. 



THEY ARE ALL GONE. 

They are all gone into the world of light, 

And I alone sit lingering here ! 
Their very memory is fair and bright. 
And my sad thoughts doth clear. 

It glows and glitters in my cloudy breast, 

Like stars upon some gloomy grove, 
Or those faint beams in which this hill 
is drest 
After the sun's remove. 

I see them walking in an air of glory. 

Whose light doth trample on my days ; 
My days, which are at best but dull and 
hoary. 
Mere glimmering and decays. 

holy hope ! and high humility, — 
High as the heavens above ! 



These are your walks, and you have 
showed them me 
To kindle my cold love. 

Dear, beauteous death, — the jewel of the 

just, — 

Shining nowhere but in the dark ! 

What mysteries do lie beyond thy dust, 

Could man outlook that mark ! 

He that hath found some fledged bird's 
nest may know, 
At first sight, if the bird be flown ; 
But wliat fair dell or grove he sings in 
now. 
That is to him unknown. 

And yet, as angels in some brighter 
dreams 
Call to the soul when man doth sleep. 
So some strange thoughts transcend our 
wonted themes. 
And into glory peep. 

If a star were confined into a tomb. 
Her captive flames must needs burn 
there ; 
But when the hand that lockt her up 
gives room. 
She'll shine through all the sphere. 

Father of eternal life, and all 

Created glories under thee ! 
Resume thv spirit from this world of 
thrall 
Into true liberty ! 

Either disperse these mists, which blot 
and fill 
My perspective still as they pass ; 
Or else remove me hence unto that hill 
Where I shall need no glass. 



GEORGE WITHER. 

[1588- 1667.] 

FOR ONE THAT HEARS HIMSELF 
MUCH PRAISED. 

My sins and follies, Lord ! by thee 

From others hidden are. 
That such good words are spoke of me, 

As now and then I hear : 



34 



SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 



For sure if others knew me such, 

Such as myself 1 know, 
I should have been dispraised as much 

As I am praised now. 

The praise, therefore, which I have heard. 

Delights not so my mind. 
As those things make njy heart afeard, 

Which in myself I find: 
And 1 had rather to be blamed. 

So I were blameless made. 
Than for much virtue to be famed, 

When I no virtues had. 

Though slanders to an innocent 

Sometimes do bitter grow, 
Their bitterness procures content. 

If clear himself he know. 
And when a virtuous man hath erred, 

If praised himself he hear. 
It makes him grieve, and more afeard, 

Thau if he slandered were. 

Lord ! therefore make my heart upright, 

Whate'er my deeds do seem ; 
And righteous rather in thy sight. 

Than in the world's esteem. 
And if aught good appear to be 

In any act of mine. 
Let thankfulness be found in me. 

And all the praise be thine. 



COMPANIONSHIP OF THE MITSE. 

She doth tell me where to borrow 
Comfort in the midst of sorrow ; 
Makes the desolatest place 
To her presence be a grace, 
And the blackest discontents 
Be her fairest ornaments. 
In my former days of bliss, 
Her divine skill taught me this. 
That from everything I saw 
I could some invention draw, 
And raise pleasure to her height. 
Through the meanest object's sight. 
By the murmur of a spring. 
Or the least bough's rustleing. 
By a daisy, whose leaves spread. 
Shut when Titan goes to bed ; 
Or a shady bush or tree. 
She could more infuse in me, 
Than all nature's beauties can 
In some other wiser man. 



By her help I also now 
Make this churlish place allow 
Some things that may sweeten glad- 
ness, 
In the very gall of sadness. 
The dull loneness, the black shade. 
That these hanging vaults have made; 
The strange music of the waves, 
Beating on these hollow caves; 
This black den which rocks emboss. 
Overgrown with eldest moss ; 
The rude portals that give light 
IMore to terror than delight; 
This my chamber of neglect. 
Walled about with disiespect, — 
From all these, and this dull air, 
A lit object for despair. 
She hath taught me by her might 
To draw comfort and delight. 
Therefore, thou best earthly bliss, 
I will cherish thee for this. 
Poesy, thou sweet'st content 
That e'er heaven to mortals lent : 
Though they as a trifle leave thee. 
Whose dull thoughts cannot conceive 

thee ; 
Though thou be to them a scorn. 
That to naught but earth are born, — 
Lot n)y life no longer be 
Than 1 am in love with thee ! 



ANDREW MAEYELL. 

[1620- 1678.] 

THOUGHTS IN A GARDEN. 

How vainly men themselves amaze, 
To win the palm, the oak, or bays : 
And their incessant labors see 
Crowned from some single lieib or 

tree. 
Whose short and narrow-verged shade 
Does prudently their toils upbraid ; 
While all the flowers and trees do 

close. 
To weave the garlands of repose. 

Fair Quiet, have I found thee here, 
And Innocence, thy sister dear? 
Mistaken long, I sought you then 
In busy comjianies of men. 
Your sacred plants, if here below. 
Only among these plants will grow. 



JOHX MILTOX. 



35 



Society is all but rade 
To this delicious solitude. 

No white nor red was ever seen 
So amorous as this lovely green. 
Fond lovers, cruel as their Hame, 
Cut in these trees their mistress' name. 
Little, alas, they know or heed, 
How far these beauties her exceed ! 
Fair trees ! where'er your barks 1 wound, 
No name shall but your own be found. 

"What wondrous life is this I lead ! 
Ripe apples drop about my head. 
The luscious clusters of the vine 
Upon my mouth do crush their wine. 
The nectarine, and curious peach. 
Into my hands themselves do reach. 
Stumbling on melons, as I pass, 
Insnared with flowers, I fall on grass. 
Meanwhile the mind from pleasure less 
Withdraws into its happiness, — 
The mind, that ocean where each kind 
Does straight its own resemblance And ; 
Yet it creates transcending these, 
Far other worlds and other seas ; 
Annihilating all that's made 
To a green thought in a green shade. 
Here at the fountain's sliding foot, 
Or <at some fruit-tree's mossy root, 
Casting the body's vest aside. 
My soul into the boughs does glide ; 
There, like a bird, it sits and sings. 
Then wliets and claps its silver wings. 
And, till prepared for longer flight," 
Waves in its plumes the various light. 

Such was the happy garden state, 
While man there walked without a 

mate : 
After a ))!ace so pure and sweet, 
AVliat other help could yet be meet ! 
But 't was beyond a mortal's share 
To wander solitary there : 
Two paradises are in one, 
To live in paradise alone. 

How well the skilful gardener drew 
Of flowers and herbs this dial new ! 
Where, from above, the milder sun 
Does through a fragrant zodiac run : 
And, as it works, the industrious bee 
Computes its time as well as we. 
How could such sweet and wholesome 

hours 
Be reckoned, but with herbs and flow- 
ers? 



THE BERMUDAS. 



Where the remote Bermudas ride 
In tiie ocean's bosom unespied. 
From a small boat that rowed along. 
The listening winds received this sono-; 
" What should we do but sing His praise 
That led us through the watery maze 
Where he the huge sea monsters racks, 
That lift the deep uj^on their backs, 
Unto an isle so long unknown. 
And yet far kinder than our own ? 
He lands us on a grassy stage. 
Safe from the stoiins and prelates' rage. 
He gave us this eternal spring 
Which here enamels everything. 
And sends the fowls to us in care, 
On daily visits through the air. 
He hangs in shades the oiange bright. 
Like golden lamps in a green night. 
And does in the pomegranates close 
Jewels more rich than Ornius shows. 
He makes the figs our mouths to meet. 
And throws the melons at our feet, 
With apples, plants of such a price, 
No tree could ever bear them twice. 
WMth cedars, chosen by his hand, 
From Lebanon he stores the land ; 
And makes the hollow seas that roar, 
Proclaim the ambergris on shore. 
He cast (of which we rather boast) 
The gospel's pearl upon our coast ; 
And in these rocks for us did frame 
A temple where to sound his name. 
0, let our voice his praise exalt. 
Till it arrive at heaven's vault. 
Which then perhaps rebounding may 
Echo beyond the Mexic bay." 

Thus sang they in the English boat 
A holy and a cheerful note ; 
And all the way, to guide their chime, 
With falling oars they kept the time. 



JOHN MILTOK 

[1608-1674.] 

HYMN ON THE NATIVITY. 

It was the winter wild, 
While the heaven-born child 

All meanly wrapt in the rude manger 
lies ; 
Nature, in awe of him, 



36 



SONGS OF THKEE CENTURIES. 



Had doffed her gaudy trim, 

With her great Master so to sympathize : 
It was 110 season then for her 
To wanton with the sun, her histy para- 
mour. 

Only with speeches fair 

She wooes the gentle air, 

To hide her guilty front with innocent 
snow; 

And on her naked shame, 

Pollute with sinful blame, 

The saintly veil of maiden-white to 
throw ; 

Confounded, that her Maker's eyes 

Should look so near upon her foul deform- 
ities. 

But he, her fears to cease. 

Sent down the meek -eyed Peace : 

She, crowned with olive green, came 

softly sliding 
Down through the turning sphere. 
His ready harbinger, 

With turtle wing the amorous clouds 

dividing ; 
And, waving wide her myrtle wand. 
She strikes a universal peace through sea 

and land. 

No war or battle's sound 
Was heard the world around : 

The idle spear and shield were high up- 
hung ; 
The hooked chariot stood 
Unstained with hostile blood ; 

The trumpet spake not to the armed 
throng ; 
And kings sat still with awful eye. 
As if they surely knew their sovereign 
lord was by. 

But peaceful was the night, 
Wherein the Prince of Light 

His reign of ])eace upon the earth began : 
The winds, with wonder whist, 
Smoothly the waters kissed, 

Whispering new joys to the mild ocean. 
Who now hath quite forgot to rave, 
While birds of calm sit brooding on the 
charmed wave. 

The stars, with deep amaze. 
Stand fixed in steadfast gaze. 

Bending one way their jirecious influ- 
ence; 
And will not take their flight, 



For all the morning light. 

Or Lucifer had often warned them 
thence ; 
But in their glimmering orbs did glow. 
Until their Lord himself bespake, and bid 
them go. 

And, though the shady gloom 

Had given day her room. 

The sun himself Avithheld his wonted 
speed. 

And hid his head for shame, 

As his inferior flame 

The new-enlightened world no more 
should need ; 

He saw a greater sun appear 

Than his bright throne, or burning axle- 
tree, could bear. 

The shepherds on the lawn, 

Or ere the point of dawn, 

Sat simplv chatting in a rustic row; 

Full little thought they then 

That the mighty Pan 

Was kindly come to live with them be- 
low ; 

Perhaps their loves, or else their sheep, 

Was all that did their silly thoughts so 
busy keep. 

When such music sweet 

Their hearts and ears did greet. 

As never was by mortal fingers strook, 
Divinely warbled voice 
Answering the stringed noise, 

As all their souls in blissful rapture 
took : 
The air, such pleasure loath to lose. 
With tliousand echoes still prolongs each 
lieaA'enly close. 

Nature, that heard such sound, 
Beneath the hollow round 

Of Cynthia's seat, the airy region 

thrilling. 
Now was almost won. 
To think her part was done, 

And that her reign had here its last 

fulfilling ; 
She knew such harmony alone 
Couldhold all heaven and earth in happier 

union. 

At last surrounds their sight 
A globe of circular light. 

That with long beams the shame-faced 
night arrayed ; 
The helmed cherubim, 



JOHN MILTON. 



37 



And sworded seraphim, 

Are seen in glitteiing ranks with wings 

displayed, 
Harping in loud and solemn quire, 
With unexpressive notes, to Heaven's 

new-born heir. 

Such music as 't is said 
Before was never made, 

But when of old the sons of morning 

sung, 
"While the Creator great 
His constellations set, 

And the well-balanced world on hinges 

hung, 
And cast the dark foundations deep. 
And bid the weltering waves their oozy 

channel keep. 

Ring out, ye cr5'^stal spheres, 
Once bless our human ears. 

If ye have power to touch our senses so ; 
And let your silver chime 
Move in melodious time ; 

And let the bass of Heaven's deep organ 
blow ; 
And, with your ninefold harmony, 
Make up full concert to the angelic sym- 
phony. 

For, if such holy song 
Enwrap our fancy long, 

Time will run back, and fetch the age 
of gold ; 
And speckled Vanity 
Will sicken soon and die, 

And leprous Sin will melt from earthly 
mould ; 
And Hell itself will pass away, 
And leave her dolorous mansions to the 
peering day. 

Yea, Truth and Justice then 
Will down retuin to men, 

Orbed in a rainbow ; and, like glories 
wearing, 
Mercy will sit between, 
Throned in celestial sheen. 

With radiant feet the tissued clouds 
down steering ; 
And Heaven, as at some festival. 
Will open wide the gates of her high 
palace hall. 

But wisest Fate says no, 
This must not yet be so ; 

The babe yet lies in smiling infancy, 
That on the bitter cross 



Must redeem our loss, 

So both himself and us to glorify : 
Yet first, to those ychained in sleep. 
The wakeful trump of doom must thunder 
through the dee23, 

Yv^'ith such a horrid clang 
As on Mount Sinai rang. 

While the red fire and smouldering 

clouds outbrake ; 
The aged earth aghast. 
With terror of that blast, 

Shall from the surface to the centre 

shake ; 
When, at the world's last session, 
The dreadful Judge in middle air shall 

spread his throne. 

And then at last our bliss. 
Full and perfect is. 

But now begins ; for, from this happy 
day. 
The old dragon, underground, 
In straiter limits bound. 

Not half so far casts his usurped sway ; 
And, wroth to see his kingdom fail. 
Swinges the scaly horror of his folded tail. 

The oracles are dumb ; 
No voice or hideous hum 

Runs through the arched roof in words 

deceiving. 
Apollo from his shrine 
Can no more divine, 

With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos 

leaving. 
No nightly trance, or breathed spell, 
Inspires the pale-eyed priest from the 

prophetic cell. 

The lonelj^ mountains o'er. 
And the resounding shore, 

A voice of weeping heai'd and loud 
lament ; 
From haunted spring and dale, 
Edged with poplar pale, 

ThepartingGenius is with sighing sent ; 
With flower-inwoven tresses torn. 
The nymphs in twilight shade of tangled 
thickets mourn. 

In consecrated earth, 
And on the holy hearth. 

The Lars and Lemures mourn with mid- 
night plaint. 
In urns and altars round, 



38 



SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 



A drear and dying sound 

Affrights the Flaniens at their service 

quaint; 
And the chill marble seems to sweat, 
While each peculiar power foregoes his 

wonted seat. 

Peor and Baalim 

Forsake their temples dim 

With that twice-battered God of Pales- 
tine ; 

And mooned Ashtaroth, 

Heaven's queen and mother both, 

Now sits not girt with tapers' holy 
shine ; 

The Libyac Hammon shrinks his horn ; 

In vain the Tyrian maids their wounded 
Thammuz mourn. 

And sullen Moloch, fled. 
Hath left in shadows dread 

His burning idol all of blackest hue : 
In vain with cymbals' ring 
They call the grisly king, 

In dismal dance about thefurnaceblue : 
The brutish gods of Nile as fast, 
Isis, and Orus, and the dog Anubis, haste. 

Nor is Osiris seen 

In Mernphian grove or green. 

Trampling the unshowered grass with 
lowings loud ; 

Nor can he be at rest 

Within his sacred chest, 

Naught but profoundest hell can be his 
shroud ; 

In vain with timbrelled anthems dark 

The sable-stoled sorcerers bear his wor- 
shipped ark. 

He feels from Judah's land 
The dreaded infant's hand, 

The rays of Bethlehem blind his dusky 

eyne; 
Nor all the gods beside 
Longer dare abide. 

Not Typhon huge ending in snaky 

twine ; 
Our babe, to show his Godhead true. 
Can in his swaddling bands control the 

damned crew. 

So, when the sun in bed, 
Curtained with cloudy red, 

Pillows his chin upon an orient wave. 
The flocking shadows pale 



Troop to the infernal jail, 

Each fettered ghost slips to his several 

grave ; 
And the yellow-skirted fays 
Fly after the night-steeds, leaving their 

moon-loved maze. 

But see, the Virgin blest 
Hath laid her babe to rest ; 

Time is our tedious song should here 

have ending : 
Heaven's youngest-teemed star 
Hath fixed her polished car, 

Her sleeping Lord with handmaid lamp 

attending ; 
And all about the courtly stable 
Bright-harnessed angels sit in order ser-' 

viceable. 



SONNETS. 

ON ARRIVING AT THE AGE OF TWENTY- 
THREE. 

How soon hath Time, the subtle thief 

of youth. 
Stolen on his wing my three-and-twen- 

tieth year ! 
My hasting days fly on with full career. 
But my late spring no bud or blossom 

showeth. 
Perhaps my semblance might deceive the 

truth, 
That 1 to manhood am arrived so near, 
And inward ripeness doth much less 

appear. 
That some more timely -happy spirits 

endu'th. 
Yet, be it less or more, or soon or slow. 
It shall be still in strictest measure even 
To that same lot, howevermean orhigh, 
Toward which Time leads me, and the 

will of Heaven ; 
All is, if I have grace to use it so. 
As ever in my great Taskmaster's eye. 



ON HIS BLINDNESS. 

When I consider how my light is spent, 
Ere half my days in this dark world 

and wide, 
And that one talent, which is death to 
hide. 
Lodged with me useless, though my soul 

more bent 
To serve therewith my Maker, and present 



THOMAS ELWOOD. — SIR ROGER L ESTRANGE. 



My true account, lest he returning 

cliide; 
"Doth God exact day-labor, light 

denied?" 
I fondly ask : but Patience, to prevent 
That murmur, soon replies, " God doth 

not need 
Either man's work or liis own gifts : who 

best 
Bear his mild yoke, they serve him 

best : his state 
Is kingly ; thousands at his bidding 

speed, 
And post o'er land and ocean without 

rest; 
They also serve who only stand and 

wait." 



THOMAS ELWOOD. 
[1639- 1713.] 

PRAYER. 

Unto the glory of thy Holy Name, 
Eternal God ! whom I both love and fear. 
Here bear I witness that I never came 
Before thy throne and found thee 

loath to hear. 
But, ever ready with an open ear. 
And though sometimes thou seem'st thy 

face to hide 
As one that hath his love withdrawn 

from me, 
'Tis that my faith may to the full be 

tried. 
And I thereby may only better see 
How weak I am when not upheld by 

Thee. 



KICHAED BAXTER. 

[161S-1691.] 

RESIGNATION. 

Lord, it belongs not to my care. 

Whether I die or live : 
To love and serve thee is my share, 

And this thy grace must give. 
If life be long, 1 will be glad. 

That I may long obey ; 
If short, yet why should I be sad 

To soar to endless day ? 



Christ leads me tlirough no darker rooms 

Than he went tlirough before ; 
He that into God's kingdom comes 

Must enter by liis door. 
Come, Lord, when grace has made me 
meet 

Thy blessed face to see ; 
For if thy work on earth be sweet. 

What will thy glory be ? 

Then shall I end my sad complaints. 

And weary, sinful days; 
And join with the triumphant saints 

That sing Jehovah's praise. 
My knowledge of that life is small, 

The eye of faith is dim ; 
But 't is enough that Christ knows all, 

And I shall be with him. 



SIR ROGER L'ESTRANGE. 

[1616-1704.] 

IN PRISON. 

Beat on, proud billows ; Boreas, blow ; 
Swell, curled waves, high as Jove's 
roof; 
Your incivility doth show 

That innocence is tempest proof; 
Though surly Nereus frown, my thoughts 

are calm ; 
Then strike. Affliction, for thy wounds 
are balm. 

That which the world miscalls a jail 

A private closet is to me ; 
Whilst a good conscience is my bail. 

And innocence my liberty : 
Locks, bars, and solitude together met. 
Make me no prisoner, but an anchoret. 

I, whilst I wisht to be retired. 

Into this private room was turned ; 

As if their wisdoms liad conspired 
The salamander should be burned ; 

Or like those sophists, that would drown 
a fish, 

I am constrained to suffer what I wish. 

The cynic loves his poverty ; 

The pelican her wilderness; 
And 't is the Indian's pride to be 

Naked on frozen Caucasus : 



40 



SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 



Contentment cannot smart ; stoics we 

see 
Make torments easier to their apathy. 

Tliese manacles upon my arm 
I as my mistress' favors wear; 

And for to keep my ankles warm 
I have some iron shackles there : 

These walls are but my garrison ; this cell, 

"Which men call jail, doth prove my cit- 
adel. 

I 'm in the cabinet lockt up, 

Like some high-piized margarite. 

Or, like the Great Mogul or Pope, 
Am cloistei-ed up from public sight : 

Eetiredness is a ])i(;ce of majesty, 

And thus, proud sultan, I 'm as great as 
thee. 

Here sin for want of food must starve. 
Where tempting objects are not seen ; 

And these strong walls do only serve 
To keep vice out, and keep me in : 

Malice of late 's grown charitable sure ; 

1 'm not committed, but am kept secure. 

So he that struck at Jason's life. 

Thinking t' have made his purpose 
sure, 
By a malicious friendly knife 

Did only wound him to a cure. 
Malice, I see, wants wit; for what is 

meant 
Mischief, ofttimes proves favor by the 
event. 

Have you not seen the nightingale, 
A prisoner like, coopt in a cage. 

How doth she chant her wonted tale. 
In that her narrow hermitage? 



age 
lelo 



Even then her charming melody doth 

prove 
That all her bars are trees, her cage a 

grove. 

I am that bird, whom they combine 

Thus to deprive of liberty ; 
But though they do my corps confine. 

Yet maugre hate, my soul is fi'ee : 
And though immured, yet can I chirp, 

and sing 
Disgrace to rebels, glory to my king. 

Lly soul is free as ambient air. 

Although my baser part 's immured, I 



Whilst loyal thoughts do still repair 

T' accompany my solitude : 
Although rebellion do my body bind. 
My king alone can captivate my mind. 



EDMUND WALLER. 

[1605- 1687.] 

OLD AGE AND DEATH. 

The seas are quiet when the winds give 

o'er ; 
So calm are we when passions are no 

more. 
For then we know how vain it was to 

boast 
Of fleeting things, too certain to be lost. 

Clouds of affection from our younger eyes 

Conceal that emptiness which age de- 
scries. , 

The soul's dark cottage, battered and 
decayed. 

Lets in new light through chinks that 
time has made. 

Stronger by weakness, wiser men become, 
As they draw near to their eternal home. 
Leaving the old, both worlds at once 

they view. 
That stand upon the threshold of the 

new. 



ABRAHAM COWLEY. 

[1618- 1667.] 

OF MYSELF. 

This only grant me, that my means may 

lie 
Too low for envy, for contempt too high. 

Some honor I would have, 
Not from great deeds, but good alone ; 
The unknown are better than ill known : 

Kumor can ope the grave. 
Acquaintance I would have, but when 't 

depends 
Not on the number, but the choice, of 

friends. 



ABRAHAM COWLEY. 



41 



Books should, not business, entertain 

the light, 
And sleep, as undisturbed as death, the 

night. 
My house a cottage more 
Than palace ; and should fitting be 
For all my use, no luxury. 

My garden painted o'er 
With Nature's hand, not Art's; and 

pleasures yield, 
Horace might envy in his Sabine field. 

Thus would I double my life's fading 

space ; 
For he that runs it well twice runs his 
race. 
And in this true delight, 
These unbought sports, this hapjiy state, 
I would not fear, nor wish, my fate ; 

But boldly say each night, 
To-morrow let my sun his beams display. 
Or in clouds hide them; I have lived to- 
day. 



LIBERTY. 

Where honor or where conscience does 

not bind, 
No other law shall shackle me ; 
Slave to myself I will not be : 
Nor shall my future actions be confined 
By my own present mind. 
Who by resolves and vows engaged does 

stand 
For days that yet belong to Fate, 
Does, like an unthrift, mortgage his 

estate 
Before it falls into his hand. 
The bondman of the cloister so 
All that he does receive does always owe ; 
And still as time comes in, it goes away, 
Not to enjoy, but debts to pay. 
Unhappy slave ! and pupil to a bell ! 
Which his hour's work, as well as hours, 

does tell ! 
Unhapijy to the last, the kind releasing 

knell. 



FROM DRYDEN TO BURNS. 



^ 



From Dryden to Burns. 



JOHN DRYDEN. 

[1631-1701.] 

SONG FOR SAINT CECILIA'S DAY, 1687. 

I Fkom harmony, from heavenly harmony, 

V This universal frame began : 

When Nature underneath a heap - 

Of jarring atoms lay, 

And could not heave her head. 

The tuneful voice was heard from high, 

Arise, ye more than dead ! 
Then cold, and hot, and moist, and dry 
In order to their stations leap, 
And music's power obey. 
/From harmony, from heavenly harmony, 
1^ This universal frame began : 
From harmony to harmony 
Through all the compass of the notes it 

ran. 
The diapason closing full in man. 

What passion cannot music raise and quell ? 
When Jubal struck the chordiid shell 
His listening brethren stood around. 
And, wondering, on their faces fell 
To worship that celestial sound. 
Less than a God they thought there could 
not dwell 
Within the hollow of that shell 
That spoke so sweetly and so well. 
What passion cannot music raise and quell ? 

The trumpet's loud clangor 

Excites us to arms. 
With shrill notes of anger 

And mortal alarms. 
The double double double beat 

Of the thundering drum 

Cries, " Hark ! tlie foes come ; 
Charge, charge, 't is too late to retreat ! " 



The soft complaining flute 
In dying notes discovers 
The woes of hopeless lovers. 
Whose dirge is whispered by the war- 
bling lute. 

Sharp violins proclaim 
Their jealous pangs and desjieration, 
Fury, frantic indignation, 
Depth of pains, and height of passion, 

For the fair, disdainful dame. 

But 0, what art can teach. 
What human voice can reach, 

The sacred organ's praise ? 
Notes inspiring holy love, 
Notes that wing their heavenly ways 

To mend the choirs above. 



Orpheus could lead the savage race, 
And trees uprooted left their place, 

Sequacious of the lyre : 
But bright Cecilia rtiised the wonder ! 
higher ; , | 

When to her organ vocal breath was ' 

given. 
An angel heard, and straight appeared, — 
Mistaking earth for heaven ! 

GRAND CHORUS. . 

As from the power of sacred lays ■;' ' 

The spheres began to move. 
And sung the great Creator's praise ' 

To all the blest above ; 
So when the last and dreadful hour 
This crumbling pageant shall devour, 
The trumpet shall be heard on high, 
The dead shall live, the living die, 
And music shall untune the sky. 



46 



SONGS OF THREE CENTUKIES. 



UNDER MILTON'S PICTURE. 

Three Poets, in three distant ages born, 
Greece, Italy, and England did adorn. 
The first in loftiness of thought sur- 



The next in majesty ; in both the last. 
The force of Nature could no further go ; 
To make a third, she joined the former 
two. 



CHARACTER OF A GOOD PARSON. 

A PARISH priest was of the pilgrim 

train ; 
An awful, reverend, and religious man. 
His eyes diffused a venerable grace, 
And charity itself was in his face. 
Rich was his soul, though his attire was 

poor 
(As God hath clothed his own ambassa- 
dor) ; 
For such, on earth, his blessed Eedeemer 

bore. 
Of sixty years he seemed ; and well might 

"last 
To sixty more, but that he lived too ftst, 
Eefined himself to soul, to curb the sense, 
And made almost a sin of abstinence. 
Yet had his aspect nothing of severe. 
But such a face as promised him sincere. 
Nothing reserved or sullen was to see ; 
But sweet regards, and pleasing sanctity. 
Mild was his accent, and his action free. 
With eloquence innate his tongne was 

armed ; 
Though harsh the precept, yet the peo- 
ple charmed. 
For, letting down the golden chain from 

high. 
He drew his audience upward to the sky : 
And oft with holy hymns he charmed 

their ears 
(A music more melodious than the 

spheres); 
For David left him, when he went to rest. 
His lyre ; and after him he sung the 

best. 
He bore his great commission in his look ; 
But sweetly tempered awe, and softened 

all he spoke. 
He pi'eached the joys of heaven and pains 

of hell, 
And warned the sinner with becoming 

zeal ; 
But on eternal mercy loved to dwell. 



He taught the gospel rather than the 
law; 

And forced himself to drive ; but loved 
to draw. 

For fear but freezes minds ; but love, like 
heat, 

Exhales the soul sublime, to seek her 
native seat. 

To threatsthe stubborn sinneroft is hard, 

Wrapped in his crimes, against the 
storm prepared ; 

But when the milder beams of mercy 
I'l^y, 

He melts, and throws his cumbrous cloak 
away. 

Lightning and thunder (heaven's artil- 
lery) 

As harbingers before the Almighty fly: 

Those but proclaim his style, and disap- 
pear ; 

The stiller sounds succeed, and God is 
there. 



Dim as the borrowed beams of moon and 

stars 
To lonely, weary, wandering travellers, 
Is reason to the soul ; and as on high. 
Those rolling fires discover but the sky, 
Not light us here ; so reason's glimmer- 
ing ray 
Was lent, not to assure our doubtful way, 
But guide us upward to a better day. 
And as those nightly tapers disappear 
When day's bright lord ascends our 

hemisphere ; 
So pale grows reason at religion's sight, — 
So dies, and so dissolves in supernatural 
light. 



THOMAS KEN. 

[1637-1711.] 

MORNING HYMN. 

Awake, my soul, and Avith the sun 
Thy daily course of duty run ; 
Shake off dull sloth, and joyful rise 
To pay thy morning sacrifice. 

Wake, and lift up thyself, my heart, 
And with the angels bear thy part, 




'For though in dreadful whikls we hung."— Page 47. 



JOSEPH ADDISON. 



47 



Who all night long unwearied sing 
High praises to the eternal King. 

All praise to Thee, who safe hast kept, 
And hast refreshed me whilst I slej^t ; 
Grant, Lord, when 1 from death shall 

wake, 
I may of endless light partake. 

Lord, I my vows to thee renew ; 
Disperse my sins as morning dew ; 
Guard mv first sj) rings of thought and 

will, 
And with thyself my spirit fill. 

Dii'ect, control, suggest, this day, 
All I design, or do, or say ; 
That all my powers, with all their might, 
In thy sole glory may unite. 

Praise God, from whom all blessings flow 
Praise him, all creatures here below ; 
Praise him above, ye heavenly host ; 
Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. 



JOSEPH ADDISON. 



[1672-1719.] 



How are thy servants blest, Lord ! 

How sure is their defence ! 
Eternal Wisdonr is their guide, 

Their help Omnipotence. 

In foreign realms and lands remote. 

Supported by thy care. 
Through burning climes I passed unhurt, 

And breathed in tainted air. 

Thy mercy sweetened every toil, 

Slade every region please ; 
The hoary Alpine hills it warmed, 

And smoothed the Tyrrhene seas. 

Think, my soul, devoutly think, 

How, with affrighted eyes. 
Thou sa\v'st the wide extended deep 

In all its horrors rise. 

Confusion dwelt in every face, 

And fear in every heart ; 
When waves on waves, and gulfs on gulfs, 

O'ercame the pilot's art. 



Yet then from all my griefs, Lord, 

Thy mercy set me free. 
Whilst in the confidence of prayer. 

My faith took liold on thee. 

For, though in dreadful whirls we hung, 

High on the broken wave, 
I knew thou wert not slow to hear, 

Kor impotent to save. 

The stoi-m w-as laid, the winds retired 

Obedient to thy will ; 
The sea, that roared at thy command. 

At thy command was still. 

In midst of dangers, fears, and death, 

Thy goodness 1 '11 adore. 
And praise thee for thy mercies past, 

And humbly hope for more. 

My life, if thou preserv'st my life. 

Thy sacrifice shall be ; 
And death, if death must be my doom, 

Shall join my soul to thee. 



PARAPHRASE OF PSALM XXIII. 

The Lord my pasture shall prepare, 
And feed me with a shepherd's care ; 
His presence shall my wants supply. 
And guard me with a watchful eye ; 
My noonday walks he shall attend. 
And all my midnight hours defend. 

When in the sultry glebe I faint, 
Or on the thirsty mountain pant. 
To fertile vales and dewy meads 
My weary, wandering steps he leads, 
Where peaceful rivers, soft and slow. 
Amid the verdant landscape flow. 

Though in the paths of death I tread. 
With gloomy horrors overspread. 
My steadfast heart shall fear no ill ; 
For thou, Lord, art with me still : 
Thy friendly crook shall give me aid. 
And guide me through the dreadful shade. 

Though in a bare and rugged way. 
Through devious lonely wilds I stray. 
Thy bounty shall my wants beguile. 
The barren wilderness shall smile. 
With suddengreensand herbage crowned, 
And streams shall murmur all around. 



48 



SONGS OF THREE CENTUKIES. 



ALEXANDER POPE. 

[1688 -1744.] 

THE UNIVERSAL PRAYER. 

Father of all ! in every age, 

In every clime adored, 
By saint, by savage, and by sage, 

Jehovah, Jove, or Lord ! 

Thou great First Cause, least understood. 

Who all my sense confined 
To know but this, that thou art good. 

And that myself am blind ; 

Yet gave me, in this dark estate, 

To see the good from ill ; 
And, binding nature fast in fate, 

Left free tlie human will. 

What conscience dictates to be done, 

Or warns me not to do, 
This teach me more than hell to shun. 

That more than heaven pursue. 

What blessings thy free bounty gives 

Let me not cast away ; 
For God is paid when man receives : 

To enjoy is to obey. 

Yet not to earth's contracted span 
Thy goodness let me bound. 

Or think thee Lord alone of man, 
When thousand worlds are round. 

Let not this weak, imknowing hand 
Presume thy bolts to throw, 

And deal damnation round the land 
On each I judge thy foe. 

If I am right, thy grace impart 

Still in the right to stay ; 
If I am wrong, 0, teach my heart 

To find that better way ! 

Save me <ilike from foolish pride. 

Or impious discontent, 
At aught thy wisdom has denied, 

Or aught thy goodness lent. 

Teach me to feel another's woe, 

To hide the fault I see ; 
That mercy I to others show, 

That mercy show to me. 

Mean though I am, not wholly so. 
Since quickened by thy breath ; 



0, lead me wheresoe'er I go. 

Through this day's life or death. 

This day be bread and peace my lot; 

All else beneath the sun 
Thou know'st if best bestowed or not, 

And let thy will be done ! 

To thee, whose temple is all space, — 
Whose altar, earth, sea, skies, — 

One chorus let all beings raise ! 
All Nature's incense rise ! 



HAPPINESS. 

HAPPINESS ! our being's end and aim ! 

Good, i)leasure, ease, content! whate'er 
thy name ; 

That something still, M'hich prompts the 
eternal sigh ; 

For which we bear to live or dare to 
die ; 

Which still so near us, yet beyond us 
lies, 

O'erlooked, seen double by the fool, and 
wise. 

Plant of celestial seed ! if dropped be- 
low, 

Say, in what mortal soil thou deign'st to 
gi-ow ? 

Fair opening to some court's projiitious 
shrine, 

Or deep with diamonds in the flaming 
mine ? 

Twined with the wreaths Parnassian 
laurels yield. 

Or reaped in iron harvests of the field ? 

W^here grows? — where grows it not? 
If vain our toil. 

We ought to blame the culture, not the 
soil : 

Fixed to no spot is happiness sincere, 

'T is nowhere to be found, or eveiy where. 
Ask of the learned the way, the learned 
are blind ; 

This bids to serve, and that to shun man- 
kind : 

Some place the bliss in action, some in 
ease ; 

Those call it pleasure, and contentment 
these : 

Some, sunk to beasts, find jileasure end 
in pain ; 

Some, swelled to gods, confess e'en vir- 
tue vain : 

Or indolent, to each extreme they fall, — 



ALLAN RAMSAY. 



49 



To trust ill everything, or doubt of all. 

Who thus define it, say they more or less 

Than this, that happiness is ha})piness ? 

Take nature's path, and mad opinion's 
leave ; 

All states can reach it, and all heads con- 
ceive ; 

Obvious her goods, in no extremes they 
dwell ; 

There needs but thinking right and 
meaning well ; 

And mourn our various portions as we 
please. 

Equal is common sense and common ease. 

Remember, man, " Tlie Universal Cause 

Acts not by partial, but by general laws"; 

And makes what happiness we justly 
call _ 

Subsist not in the good of one, but all. 

There 's not a blessing individuals find, 

But some way leans and hearkens to tlie 
kind ; 

No bandit tierce, no tyrant mad with 
pride, 

Ko cavenied hermit rests self-satisfied : 

Who most to shun or hate mankind pre- 
tend. 

Seek an admirer, or would fix a friend : 

Abstract what others feel, what others 
think, 

All pleasures sicken, and all glories sink : 

Each has his share ; and wlio would 
more obtain 

Shall find the pleasure pays not half the 
pain. 

Order is Heaven's first law ; and, this con- 
fessed, 

Some are, and must be, greater than the 
rest, 

More rich, more wise : but who infers 
from hence 

That suchare happier shocks all common- 
sense. 

Heaven to mankind impartial we confess, 

If all are equal in their happiness : 

But mutual wants this happiness iu- 
creas(^ ; 

All nature's difference keeps all nature's 
lieace. 

Condition, circumstance, is not tlie thing; 

Bliss is the same in subject or in king. 

In who obtain defence or who defend, 

In him who is or him who finds a friend ; 

Heaven breathes through every member 
of the whole 

One common blessing, as one common 
soul. 



But fortune's gifts if each alike possessed, 

And all were equal, must not all con- 
test? 

If then to all men happiness was meant, 

God in externals could not place con- 
tent. 
Fortune her gifts may variously dis- 
pose. 

And these be happy called, unhappy 
those ; 

But Heaven's just balance equal will ap- 
pear. 

While those are placed in hope, and 
tliese ill fear ; 

Not present good or ill, the joy or curse, 

But future views of better or of worse. 

sons of earth, attempt ye still to 
rise, 

By mountains piled on mountains, to the 
skies ? 

Heaven still with laughter the vain toil 
surveys. 

And buries madmen in the heaps they 
raise. 
Know, all the good that individuals 
find, 

Or God and nature meant to mere man- 
kind. 

Reason's whole pleasure, all the joys of 
sense, 

Lie in three words, health, peace, and 
competence. 



ALLAN RAMSAY. 

[.685-1758.] 

SONG. 

Farewell to Lochaber, farewell to my 

Jean, 
Where heartsome with thee I have mony 

a day been : 
To Lochaber no more, to Lochaber no 

more, 
We '11 maybe return to Lochaber no 

more. 
These tears that I shed they are a' for 

my dear, 
And not for the dangers attending on 

weir ; 
Though borne on rough seas to a far 

bloody shore, 
Maybe to return to Lochaber no more ! 



50 



SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 



Though hurricanes rise, ami rise every 

wind, 
No tempest can equal the storm in my 

mind ; 
Though loudest of thunders on louder 

waves roar, 
That 's naething like leaving my love on 

the shore. 
To leave thee behind me my lieart is sair 

pained, 
But by ease that 's inglorious no fame 

can be gained : 
And beauty and love 's the reward of the 

brave ; 
And I maun deserve it before I can crave. 

Then glory, my Jeany, maun plead my 
excuse ; 

Since honor commands me, how can I 
refuse ? 

Without it I ne'er can have merit for 
thee, 

And losing tliy favor I 'd better not be. 

1 gae then, my lass, to win honor and 
fame. 

And if 1 should chance to come glorious 
hame, 

1 '11 bring a heart to thee with love run- 
ning o'er. 

And then I '11 leave thee and Lochaber 



JOHN GAY. 

[16S8-1732.] 

THE PAINTER WHO PLEASED NOBODY 
AND EVERYBODY. 

Lest men suspect your tale untrue, 
Keep probability iu view. 
The traveller, leaping o'er those loounds, 
The credit of his book confounds. 
Who with his tongue hath armies routed 
Makes even his real courage doubted : 
But flattery never seems absurd ; 
The flattered always takes your word : 
Impossibilities seem just ; 
They take the strongest ])raise on trust. 
Hypeiboles, tliough ne'er so gi'cat, 
Will still come short of self-conceit. 

So very like a painter drew. 
That every eye the picture knew ; 
He hit complexion, feature, air. 



So just, the life itself was there. 
No flattery with his colors laid. 
To bloom restored the faded maid ; 
He gave each muscle all its strength. 
The mouth, the chin, the nose's length. 
His honest pencil touched with truth. 
And marked the date of age and youth. 
He lost his friends, his practice failed ; 
Truth should not always be revealed ; 
I n dusty piles his pictures lay. 
For no one sent the second pay. 
Two bustos, fraught with every grace, 
A Venus' and Apollo's face. 
He placed in view ; resolved to please, 
Whoever sat, he drew from these. 
From these corrected every feature. 
And spirited each awkward creature. 
All things were set; the hour was 

come. 
His pallet ready o'er his thumb. 
My lord appeared ; and seated right 
In proper attitude and light. 
The painter looked, he sketched the 

piece. 
Then dipped his pencil, talked of Greece, 
Of Titian's tints, of Guido's air ; 
"Those eyes, my lord, the spirit there 
Might well a Eaphael's hand require, 
To give them all their native fire ; 
The features fraught with sense and 

wit. 
You '11 grant are very hard to hit ; 
But yet with patience you .shall view 
As much as paint and art can do. 
Observe the work." My lord replied : 
" Till now I thought my mouth was 

wide ; 
Besides, my nose is somewhat long ; 
Dear sir, for me, 't is far too young." 
"Oh! pardon me," the artist cried, 
"In this the painters must decide. 
The piece even common eyes must strike, 
I warrant it extremely like." 
Jly lord examined it anew ; 
No looking-glass seemed half so true. 
A lady came ; with borrowed grace 
He from' his Venus formed her face. 
Her lover praised the painter's art ; 
So like the picture in his lieart ! 
To every age some charm he lent ; 
Even beauties were almost content. 
Through all the town his art they praised; 
His custom grew, his price was raised. 
Had he the real likeness shown, 
Would any man the pictni-e own ? 
But when thus happily he wrought. 
Each found the likeness in his thought. 



JOHN BYROM. — JAMES THOMSON. 



51 



JOHN BYROM. 

[1691-1763.] 

CARELESS CONTENT. 

I AM content, I do not care, 

Wag as it will the world I'or me ; 

When fuss and fret was all iny fare, 
It got no ground as I could see : 

So when away my caiing went, 

1 counted cost, and was content. 

"With more of thanks and less of thought, 
I strive to make my matters meet ; 

To seek what ancient sages sought, 
Physic and food in sour and sweet : 

To take what i>asses in good part. 

And keep the hiccups from the heart. 

"With good and gentle-humored hearts, 
I choose to chat where'er I come, 

"Wliate'er the subject be that starts ; 
But if I get among the glum, 

I hold my tongue to tell the truth, 

And keep my breath to cool my broth. 

For chance or cliange of peace or pain, 
For Fortune's favor or her frown, 

For lack or glut, for loss or gain, 
I never dodge nor up nor down ; 

But swing what way the ship shall swim. 

Or tack about with ef^ual trim. 

I suit not where I shall not speed. 
Nor trace the turn of every tide ; 

If simple sense will not succeed, 
I make no bustling, but abide ; 

For shining wealth or scaring woe, 

I force no friend, I fear no foe. 

Of ups and downs, of ins and outs. 
Of they 're i' the wrong, and we 're 
i' the right, 

I shun the rancors and the routs ; 
And wishing well to every wight. 

Whatever turn the matter takes, 

1 deem it all but ducks and drakes. 

With whom I feast I do not fawn. 
Nor if the folks should flout me, faint ; 

If wonted welcome be withdrawn, 
I cook no kind of a comidaint : 

With none disposed to disagree. 

But like them best who best like ine. 

Not that I rate myself the rule 

How all my betters should behave ; 



But fame shall find me no man's fool. 

Nor to a set of men a slave : 
I love a friendship free and frank, 
And hate to hang upon a hank. 

Fond of a true and trusty tie, 
I never loose where'er I link ; 

Though if a business budges by, 
I talk thereon just as I think ; 

My word, my work, my heart, my hand, 

Still on a side together stand. 

If names or notions make a noise. 
Whatever hap the question hath, 

The point impartially I poise. 

And read or write, but without wrath ; 

For should 1 burn, or break my brains, 

Pray, who will pay me for my pains ? 

I love my neighbor as myself. 

Myself like him too, by his leave ; 

Nor to his pleasure, power, or pelf 
Came I to crouch, as I conceive : 

Dame Nature doubtless has designed 

A man the monarch of his mind. 

Now taste and try this temper, sirs ; 

Mood it and brood it in your breast ; 
Or if ye ween, for worldly stirs, 

That man does right to mar his rest. 
Let me be deft, and debonair, 
I am content, I do not care. 



JAMES THOMSON. 

[1700- 1748.] 

FROM THE "CASTLE OF INDOLENCE." 

I\ lowly dale, fast by a river's side. 
With woody hill o'er hill encompassed 

round, 
A most enchanting wizard did abide. 
Than whom a friend more fell is no- 
where found. 
It was, I ween, a lovely spot of ground : 
And there a season atween June and 

Jlay, 
Half pranked with spring, with sum- 
mer half imbrowned, 
A listless climate made, where, sooth 
to say, 
No living wight could work, nor cared 
even for play. 



52 



SONGS OF THREE CEXTUEIES. 



Was ii.auglit around but images of rest : 

Slee])-sootliiiig groves, and quiet lawns 
between ; 

And ilowery beds that shimberous in- 
fluence kest, 

From poitpies breathed; and beds of 
pleasant green, 

Where never yet was creeping crea- 
. tui'e seen. 

Meantime unnumbered glittering 
streamlets ])layed, 

And hurled everywhere their waters 
sheen ; 

That, as they bickered through the 
sunny glade, 
Though restless still themselves, a lull- 
ing murmur maele. 

Joined to the prattle of the purling 

rills, 
Were heard the lowing herds along the 

vale, 
And flocks loud bleating from the dis- 
tant hills, 
And vacant shepherds piping in the 

dale ; 
And now and then sweet Philomel 

would wail. 
Or stock -doves plain amid the forest 

deep, 
That drowsy rustled to the sighing 

gale; 
And still a coil the grasshopper did 

keep ; 
Yet all tlicse sounds yblent inclined all 

to sleep. 

Full in the passage of the vale above, 
A sable, silent, solemn forest stood. 
Where naught but shadowy forms was 

seen to move. 
As Idlesse fancied in her dreamymood : 
And up the hills, on either side, a 

wood 
Of blackening pines, aye waving to 

and fro. 
Sent forth a sleepy lioiTor tlirougli the 

blood ; 
And where this valley winded out be- 
low. 
The murmuring main was heard, and 
scarcely heard, to flow. 

A pleasing land of drowsy-head it was, 
Of dreams that wave before the half- 
shut eye : 



And of gay castles in the clouds that 

pass, 
Forever flushing round a summer sky : 
Tiiere eke the soft delights, that witch- 

, i"giy 

Instil a wanton sweetness through the 
breast. 

And the calm pleasures, always hov- 
ered nigh ; 

But whate'er smacked of noyance or 
unrest 
Was far, iar off" expelled from this deli- 
cious nest. 



These, as they change. Almighty Fa- 
ther, these 

Are but the varied God. The lolling 
year 

Is full of thee. Forth in the ])leasing 
spring 

Thy beauty walks, thy tenderness and 
love. 

Wide flush the fields; the softening air 
is balm ; 

Echo the mountains round; the forest 
smiles ; 

And every sense, and every heart, is joy. 

Then comes thy glory in the summer 
months. 

With light and heat refulgent. Then 
thy sun 

Shoots full jierfection through the swell- 
ing year ; 

And oft thy voice in dreadful thunder 
speaks. 

And oft at dawn, deep noon, or falling 
eve. 

By brooks and groves, in hollow-whis- 
pering gales. 

Thy bounty shines in autumn uncon- 
fined. 

And spreads a common feast for all that 
lives. 

In winter awful thou ! with clouds and 
storms 

Around thee thrown, tempest o'er tem- 
pest rolled. 

Majestic darkness ! On the whirlwind's 
wing. 

Riding sublime, thou bid'st the world 
adore. 

And humblest nature with thy northern 
blast. 



JAMES THOMSON, 



53 



Mysterious round ! what skill, what 
force divine, 

Deej) felt, in these appear ! a simple train, 

Yet so delightful mixed, with such kind 
art. 

Such beauty and beneficence combined ; 

Shade, un perceived, so softening into 
sliade ; 

And all so forming an harmonious whole ; 

That, as they still succeed, thev ravish 
still. 

But wandering oft, with brute uncon- 
scious gaze, 

Man marks not thee, marks not the 
mighty hand. 

That, ever busy, wheels the silent 
spheres ; 

Works in the secret deep ; shoots, steam- 
ing, thence 

The fair profusion that o'erspreads the 
spring ; 

Flings from the sun direct the flaming 
day ; 

Feeds every creature ; hurls the tempests 
forth ; 

And, as on earth this grateful change 
revolves, 

"With transport touches all the spriuirs 

of life. ^ ° 

Nature, attend! join every living soul. 

Beneath the spacious temple of the sky, 

In adoration join ; and, ardent, raise 

One general song! To him, ye vocal 
gales, 

Breathe soft, whose spirit in your fresh- 
ness breathes : 

0, talk of him in solitary glooms ; 

Where, o'er the rock, the scarcely wav- 
ing pine 

Fills the brown shade with a religious 
awe! 

And ye, whose bolder note is heard afar, 

Who shake the astonished world, lift 
high to heaven 

The impetuous song, and say from whom 
you rage. 

His praise, ye brooks, attune, ye trem- 
bling rills ; 

And let me cateh it as I muse along. 

Ye headlong torrents, rapid and pro- 
found ; 

Ye softer floods, that lead the humid 
maze 

Along the vale ; and thou, majestic main, 

A secret world of wonders in thyself, 

Sound his stupendous praise, whose 
greater voice 



Or bids you roar, or bids your roarings 

fall. 
Soft roll your incense, herbs, and fruits, 

and flowers, 
In mingled clouds to him, whose sun 

exalts. 
Whose breath perfumes you, and whose 

pencil paints. 
Ye forests bend, ye harvests wave, to 

him ; 
Breathe your still song into the reaper's 

heart. 
As home he goes beneath the joyous 

moon. 
Ye that keep watch in heaven, as earth 

asleep 
Unconscious lies, effuse your mildest 

beams. 
Ye constellations, while your angels 

strike. 
Amid the spangled sky, the silver lyre. 
Great source of day! best image here 

below 
Of thy Creator, ever pouring wide. 
From world to world, the vital ocean 

round. 
On Nature write with every beam his 

praise. 
The thunder rolls : be hushed the pros- 
trate world ; 
While cloud to cloud returns the solemn 

hymn. 
Bleat out afresh, ye hills ; ye mossy 

rocks. 
Retain the sound ; the broad responsive 

low. 
Ye valley.s, raise; for the great Shep- 
herd reigns. 
And his unsurtering kingdom yet will 

come. 
Ye woodlands all, awake : a boundless 

song 
Burst from the groves; and when the 

restless day. 
Expiring, lays the warbling world asleep, 
Sweetest of birds! sweet Philomela, 

charm 
The listening shades, and teach the night 

his praise. 
Ye chief, for whom the whole creation 

smiles. 
At once the head, the heart, and tongue 

of all. 
Crown the great hymn ! in swarming 

cities vast. 
Assembled men to the deep organ 
join 



54 



SONGS OF THREE CENTUEIES. 



The long-resounding voice, oft breaking 

clear, 
At solemn pauses, through the swelling 

bass ; 
And, as each mingling flame increases 

each, 
In one united ardor rise to heaven. 
Or if you rather choose the rural shade, 
And find a fane in every sacred grove. 
There let the shepherd's flute, the vir- 
gin's lay. 
The prompting seraph, and the poet's 

lyre. 
Still sing the God of seasons, as they 

roll. 
For me, when I forget the darling 

theme, 
"Whether the blossom blows, the summer 

ray 
Russets the plain, inspiring autumn 

gleams, 
Or winter rises in the blackening east. 
Be my tongue mute, my fancy paint no 

more. 
And, dead to joy, forget my heart to 

beat ! 
Should fate command me to the far- 
thest verge 
Of the green earth, to distant barbarous 

climes. 
Rivers unknown to song, — where first 

the sun 
Gilds Indian mountains, or his setting 

beam 
Flames on the Atlantic isles, — 't is 

naught to me : 
Since God is ever present, ever felt. 
In the void waste, as in the city full ; 
And wliere he vital breathes, there must 

be joy. 
When even at last the solemn hour shall 

come. 
And wing my mystic flight to future 

worlds, 
I cheerful will obey; there, with new 

])0wers. 
Will rising wonders sing : I cannot go 
Where Universal Love not smiles around, 
Sustaining all yon orbs, and all their 

suns ; 
From seeming evil still educing good. 
And better thence again, and better 

still. 
In infinite progi-ession. But I lose 
Myself in him, in light inett'able ! 
Come then, expressive Silence, muse his 

praise. 



JOHN DYER. 



GRONGAR HILL. 



Silent nymph, with curious eye J 
Who, the purple eve, dost lie 
On the mountain's lonely van. 
Beyond the noise of busy man. 
Painting fair the form of things. 
While the yellow linnet sings. 
Or the tuneful nightingale 
Charms the forest with her tale, — 
Come, with all thy various hues. 
Come and aid thy sister Muse. 
Now, while Phoebus, riding high. 
Gives lustre to the land and sky, 
Grongar Hill invites my song, — 
Draw the landscape bright and strong; 
Grongar, in whose mossy cells 
Sweetly musing Quiet dwells ; 
Grongar, in whose silent shade. 
For the modest Muses made. 
So oft I have, the evening still, 
At the fountain of a rill. 
Sat ujion a flowery bed, 
With my hand beneath my head. 
While strayed my eyes o'er Towy's 

flood. 
Over mead and over wood, 
From house to house, from hill to hill, 
Till (.'ontemplation had her fill. 

About his checkered sides 1 wind, 
And leave his brooks and meads be- 
hind. 
And groves and grottos where I lay, 
And vistas .shooting beams of day. 
Wide and wider spreads the vale. 
As circles on a smooth canal. 
The mountains round, unhappy fate ! 
Sooner or later, of all height, 
Withdraw their summits from the skies, 
And lessen as the others rise. 
Still the prospect wider spreads. 
Adds a thousand woods and meads; 
Still it widens, widens still, 
And sinks the newly risen hill.. 

Now I gain the mountain's brow; 
What a landscape lies below ! 
No clouds, no vapors intervene; 
But the gay, the open scene 
Does the face of Nature show. 
In all the hues of heaven's bow! 
And, swelling to embrace the light, 
Spreads around beneath the sight. 

Old castles on the cliffs arise. 



JOHN DYER. 



Prouflly towering in the skies ; 
Rushing from the woods, the spires 
Seem from hence ascending fires ; 
Half his beams Apollo sheds 
On the yellow mountain-heads, 
Gilds the fleeces of the flocks, 
And glitters on the broken rocks. 

Below me trees nnnumbered rise, 
Beautiful in various dyes : 
The gloomy pine, the poplar blue, 
The yellow beech, the sable yew, 
The slender fir that taper grows, 
The sturdy oak with broad-spread 

boughs ; 
And beyond the purple grove. 
Haunt of Phyllis, queen of love ! 
Gaudy as the opening dawn. 
Lies a long and level lawn. 
On which a dark hill, steep and high. 
Holds and charms the wandering eye. 
Deep are his feet in Towy's flood : 
His sides are clothed with waving 

wood. 
And ancient towers crown his brow, 
That cast an awful look below ; 
Whose ragged walls the ivy creeps. 
And with her arms from falling keeps ; 
So both a safety from the wind 
In mutual dependence find. 
'T is now the raven's bleak abode ; 
'T is now the apartment of the toad ; 
And there the fox securely feeds ; 
And there the poisonous adder breeds, 
Concealed in ruins, moss, and weeds ; 
While, ever and anon, there fall 
Huge heai)s of hoary mouldered wall. 
Yet Time has seen, — that lifts the low 
And level lays the lofty brow, — 
Has seen this broken pile complete, 
Big with the vanity of state. 
But transient is the smile of Fate ! 
A little rule, a little sway, 
A sunbeam in a winter's day. 
Is all the proud and mighty have 
Between the cradle and the grave. 

And see the rivers how they run. 
Through woods and meads, in shade and 

sun, 
Sometimes swift, sometimes slow, — 
Wave succeeding wave, they go 
A various journey to the deep. 
Like human life to endless sleep ! 
Thus is Nature's vesture wrought. 
To instruct our wandering thought : 
Thus she dresses green and gay, 
To disperse our cares away. 

Ever charming, ever new. 



When will the landscape tire the view ! 

The fountain's fall, the river's flow ; 

The woody valleys, warm and low ; 

The windy summit, wild and high, 

Roughly rushing on the sk}' ; 

The pleasant seat, the ruined tower. 

The naked rock, the shady bower; 

The town and village, dome and farm, — 

Each gives each a double charm, 

As pearls upon an Ethiop's arm. 

See on the mountain's southern side, 
Where the prosjiect opens wide. 
Where the evening gilds the tide ; 
How close and small the hedges lie ! 
What streaks of meadow cross the 

eye ! 
A step methinks may pass the stream, 
So little distant dangers seem ; 
So we mistake the Future's face. 
Eyed through Hope's deluding glass ; 
As yon summits, soft and fair. 
Clad in colors of the air. 
Which to those who journey near. 
Barren, brown, and rough appear; 
Still we tread the same coarse way. 
The present 's still a cloudy day. 

O, may I with myself agree. 
And never covet what I see ; 
Content me with an humble shade. 
My passions tamed, my wishes laid ; 
For while our wishes wildly roll, 
We banish quiet from the soul: 
'T is thus the busy beat the air. 
And misers gather wealth and care. 

Now, even now, my joys run high. 
As on the mountain-turf I lie ; 
While the wanton Zephyr sings, 
And in the vale perfumes his wings ; 
While the waters murmur deep ; 
While the shepherd charms his sheep ; 
While the birds unbounded fly. 
And with music fill the sky. 
Now, even now, my jo3'S run high. 

Be full, ye courts ; be great who 
will ; 
Search for Peace with all your skill : 
Open wide the lofty door, 
Seek her on the marble floor. 
In vain you search ; she is not there ! 
In vain j^ou search the domes of Care ! 
Grass and flowers Quiet treads, 
On the meads and mountain-heads. 
Along with Pleasure, close allied, 
Ever by each other's side ; 
And often, by the murmuring rill, 
Hears the thrush, while all is still 
Within the groves of Grongar Hill. 



56 



SONGS OF TIIllEE CENTURIES. 



WILLIAM HAMILTON. 

[1704- 1754.] 

THE BRAES OF YARROW. 

Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny bonny 

bride, 

Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow ! 

Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny bonny bride, 

And think nae nmir ou the Braes of 

Yarrow. 

"Where g:it j'e that bonny bonny bride? 

Wliere gat ye that winsome marrow?" 
I gat lier wheie 1 (hirena weil be seen, 

I'u'ingthebirkson the Braesof Yarrow. 

Weej) not, weep not, my bonny bonny 
briik', 
Weep not, weej) not, my winsome 
marrow ! 
Nor h't thy heart lament to leave 

Pu'ingtiie birkson tin; Braesol" Yarrow. 

"Why does she weep, thy bonny bonny 
' bi-idc 1 
Why does .she weep, thy winsome 
marrow ? 
And why dare ye nae mair weil be seen, 
Pu'ing the birks on the Braes of Yar- 
row?" 

Lang maun she weep, lang maun .she, 
maun she weep, 
Lang maun she weep with dule and sor- 
row, 
And lang maun I nae mair weil be seen, 
Pu'ing the birkson the Braes of Yarrow. 

Tor she has tint her lover lover dear. 
Her lover dear, the cause of sorrow, 

And I hae .slain the eonieliest swain 
That e'er pu'ed birks on the Braes of 
Yarrow. 

Why runs thy stream, O Yarrow, Yarrow, 
red ? ' 
Why on thy braes heard the voice of 
sorrow ? 
And why yon melancholious weeds 
Hung on the bonny birks of Yarrow ? 

What 's yonder floats on the rueful rueful 
flude? 
What's yonder floats? dule and 
sorrow I 



'T is he, the comely swain I slew 
I'pon the duleful Braes of Y'^arrow. 

Wash, (), wash his wounds, his wounds in 

tears, 

ilis wounds in tears with dule and 

sorrow, 

And wraj) his limbs in mouiiiiiig weeds, 

And lay him on the Braes of Yarrow. 

Then build, then build, ye sisters sisters 
sad. 

Ye sisters .sad, his tomb with sorrow. 
And weep around in WMel'ul wise, 

1 1 is lu'ljiless fate on t he 1 Jraes of Yarrow. 

Curse ye, curse ye his useless useless sliifdd, 
J\I V aim that wrought the deed of sorrow, 

The fatal si>ear that pierced his hreast, 
His comely breast, on the Braes of 
Yarrow. 

Did I not waiii thee not to lo'e. 

And wain from tight, but to n)ysorrovv ; 

O'er laslily bauld a .stronger arm 

Thou met'st, and fell on the P.raes of 
Yarrow. 

Sweet smells the birk, green grows, green 
grows the grass, 

Yellow on Yarrow bank the gowan, 
Fair hangs the ajipie frac the rock, 

Sweet the wave of Yarrow llowan. 

Flows Yarrow sweet? as sweet, as sweet 
flows Tweed, 

As green its grass, its gowan as yellow, 
As sweet smells on its braes the biik, 

The apple frae the rock as mellow. 

Fair was thv love, fair fairindeeil Ihvlove, 
In llowery bands tliou him didst fetter; 

Thougli he was fairand weil beloved again, 
Than nic he never lo'ed thee better. 

Busk ye, then busk, my bonny bonny 
bride, 
Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow ! 
Busk ye, and lo'e me on the banks of 
"Tweed, 
And think nae mair on the Braes of 
Yarrow. 

"How can I bu.sk a bonny bonny bride, 
How can I bu.sk a winsome mariow, 

How lo'e him on the banks of Tweed, 
That slew my love on the Braes of Yar- 
row ? 



ISAAC WATTS. 



57 



"0 Yarrow fields! may never never rain 
Nor dew thy tender blossoms cover, 

For there was basely slain my love, 
My love, as he had not been a lover. 

" The boy put on his robes, his robes of 
green. 

His purple vest, 't was niv ain sewing ; 
Ah ! wretched me ! I little"littl(' kcuncd 

He was in these to meet liis ruin. 

"The boy took out his milk-white milk- 
white steed, 

Unlieedl'ul of my dale and sorrow, 
]3ut e'er the to-fall of the night 

He lay a corpse on the Braes of Yarrow. 

"Much I rejoiced that waeful waeful day ; 

I sang, my voice the woods returning, 
But lang ere night tlie spear was flown 

That slew my love, and left me mourn- 



"What can my barbarous barbarous fa- 
ther do. 
But with his cruel rage pursue me? 
My lover's blood is on tliy spear. 

How canst thou, barbarous man, then 
woo me ? 

"My happy sisters may be, maybe proud ; 

With cruel and ungentle scoHin, 
May bid me seek on Yarrow Braes 

My lover nailed in his coffin. 

"My brother Douglas maj'^ upbi-aid, up- 
braid. 
And strive with threatening words to 
move me. 
My lover's blood is on thy spear. 

How canst thou ever bid me love thee ? 

"Yes, yes, prepare the bed, the bed of love. 
With bridal sheets my body cover, 

Unbar, ye bridal maids, the iloor, 
Let in the expected husband lover. 

"But who the expected husband hus- 
band is? 
His hands, methinks, are bathed in 
slaughter. 
Ah me ! what ghastly spectre 's yon, 
Comes in his pale sluoud, bleeding 
after? 

"Pale asheis, here layhim, layhimdown, 
0, lay his cold head on my pillow ; 



Take aff, take afF these bridal weeds. 
And crown my careful head with willow. 

"Pale though thou art, yet best, yet best 
beloved, 

0, could my warmth to life restore thee ! 
Ye 'd lie all night between my breasts. 

No youth lay ever there before thee. 

" Palepale, indeed, lovelylovely youth, 
Forgive, forgive so foul a slaughter. 

And lie all night between my breasts, 
No youth sliall ever lie there after." 

Return, return, mournful mournful 
bride, 

Eeturn and dry thy useless sorrow : 
Thy lover heeds naught of thy sighs. 

He lies a corpse on the Braes of Yarrow. 



ISAAC AVATTS. 

[1674- 1748.] 

THE HEAVENLY LAND. 

There is a land of pure delight. 
Where saints immortal reign ; 

Infinite day excludes the night, 
And pleasures banish pain. 

There everlasting spring abides. 
And never-withering flowers ; 

Death, like a narrow sea, divides 
This heavenly land from ours. 

Sweet fields beyond the swelling flood 
Stand dressed in living green ; 

So to the Jews old Canaan stood. 
While Jordan rolled between. 

But timorous mortals start and shrink 

To cross this narrow sea. 
And linger shivering on the brink, 

And fear to launch away. 

0, could we make our doubts remove, 
These gloomy doubts that rise. 

And see the Canaan that we love 
With unbeclouded eyes, — 

Could we but climb where Moses stood, 
And view the landscape o'er. 

Not Jordan's stream, nor death's cold 
flood, 
Should fright us from the shore. 



58 



SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 



PHILIP DODDRIDGE. 

[1702- 1751.] 

YE GOLDEN LAMPS OF HEAVEN, 
FAREWELL 1 

Ye orolden lamps of heaven, farewell, 

With all your feeble light ! 
Farewell, thou ever-changing moon, 

Pale empress of the night ! 

And thou, refulgent orb of day. 

In brigliter flames arrayed ; 
My soul, that springs beyond thy sphere, 

No more demands thy uid. 

Ye stars are but the shining dust 

Of my divine abode ; 
The pavement of those heavenly courts 

Where I shall see my God. 

There all the millions of his saints 

Shall in one song unite ; 
And each the bliss of all shall view, 

With infinite delight. 



CHARLES WESLEY. 

[1708- 178S.] 

JESIJS, LOVER OF MY SOUL. 

Jesus, lover of my soul. 

Let me to thy bosom fly. 
While the nearer waters roll, 

While the tempest still is high : 
Hide me, my Saviour, hide. 

Till the storm of life be past; 
Safe into the haven guide, 

0, receive my soul at last ! 

Other refuge have I none. 

Hangs my helpless soul on thee; 
Leave, ah ! leave me not alone. 

Still support and comfort me : 
All Tny trust on thee is stayed. 

All my help from thee I bring; 
Cover my defenceless head 

With the shadow of thy wing. 

Thou, Christ, art all I want ; 

More than all in thee I find : 
Raise the fallen, cheer the faint. 

Heal the sick, and lead the blind : 



Just and holy is thy name, 
I am all unrighteousness ; 

False and full of sin 1 am. 

Thou art full of truth and grace. 

Plenteous grace with thee is found, 

Grace to cover all my sin ; 
Let the healing streams abound. 

Make and keep me pure within : 
Thou of life the fountain art ; 

Freely let me take of thee ; 
Spring thou uj) within my heart, 

Rise to all eternity. 



AUGUSTUS M. TOPLADY. 

[1740- 1778.] 

LOVE DIVINE, ALL LOVE EXCELLING. 

Love divine, all love excelling, 

Joy of heaven to earth come down ; 
Fix in us thy humble dwelling. 

All thy faithful mercies crown ; 
Jesus, thou art all com])assion ! 

Pure, unl)ounded love thou art; 
Visit us with thy salvation. 

Enter every trembling heart. 

Breathe, 0, breathe thy loving Spirit 

Into every troubled breast; 
Let us all in thee inherit. 

Let us find the promised rest ; 
Take away the love of sinning, 

Alpha and Omega be ; 
End of faith, as its beginning, 

Set our hearts at liberty. 

Come, almighty to deliver. 

Let us all thy life receive ; 
Suddenly return, and never. 

Never more thy temples leave : 
Thee we would be always blessing. 

Serve thee as thy hosts above ; 
Pray and praise thee without ceasing, 

Glory in thy precious love. 

Finish then thy new creation, 

Pure, unspotted may we be ; 
Let us see thy great salvation 

Perfectly restored by thee : 
Changed Irom glory into glorj''. 

Till in heaven we take our jjlaee ! 
Till we cast our crowns before thee. 

Lost in wonder, love, and praise. 



SAMUEL JOHNSON. WILLIAM SHENSTONE. 



59 



SAMUEL JOHNSON. 

[1709-1784.] 

ON THE DEATH OF DR. LEVETT. 

Condemned to hope's delusive mine, 
As on we toil from day to day, 

By sudden blasts, or slow decline, 
Our social comforts drop away. 

Well tried through many a vai-ying year, 
See Levett to the grave descend, 

Officious, innocent, sincere. 

Of every friendless name the friend. 



Yet still he fills affection's eye. 
Obscurely wise and coarsely kind ; 

Nor, lettered arrogance, deny 
Thy praise to merit unrefined. 

W^hen fainting nature called for aid. 
And hovering death prepared the 
blow. 

His vigorous remedy displayed 

The power of art without the show. 

In misery's darkest cavern known. 
His useful care was ever nigh. 

Where hopeless anguish poured his groan, 
And lonely v/ant retired to die. 

No summons mocked by chill delay. 
No petty gain disdained by pride ; 

The modest wants of every day 
The toil of every day supplied. 



His virtues walked their narrow round. 
Nor made a pause, nor left a void ; 

And sure the Eternal Master found 
The single talent well employed. 

The busy day, the peaceful night, 
Unfelt, uncounted, glided by; 

His frame was firm, his powers were 
bright. 
Though now his eightieth year was nigh. 

Then with no fiery tlirobbing pain, 
No cold gradations of decay, 

Death broke at once the vital chain. 
And freed his soul the nearest way. 



WILLIAM SHENSTONE. 

[1714-1763.] 

THE SCHOOLMISTRESS. 

Her cap, far whiter than the driven 

snow. 
Emblem right meet of decency does 

yield : 
Her apron dyed in grain, as blue, I 

trowe. 
As is the harebell that adorns the 

field : 
And in her hand, for sceptre, she does 

wield 
Tway birchen sprays; with anxious 

fear entwined, 
With dark distrust, and sad repent- 
ance filled ; 
And steadfast hate, and sharp affliction 

joined. 
And fury uncontrolled, and chastisement 

unkind. 



A russet stole was o'er her shoulders 

thrown ; 
A russet kirtle fenced the nipping air : 
'T was simple russet, but it was her 

own ; 
'T was her own country bred the flock 

so fair, 
'T was her own labor did the fleece 

prepare ; 
And, sooth to say, her pupils, ranged 

around. 
Through pious awe, did term it passing 

nu-e; 
For they in gaping wonderment 

abound. 
And think, no doubt, she been the great- 
est wight on ground. 

Albeit ne flattery did corrupt her 

truth, 
Ne pompous title did debauch her ear ; 
Goody, good-woman, gossip, n' aunt 

forsooth, 
Or dame, the sole additions she did 

hear ; 
Yet these she challenged, these she 

held right dear : 
Ne would esteem him act as mought 

behove, 
Who should not honored eld with these 

revere : 



60 



For never title yet so mean could 
prove, 
But there wis eke a mind wliicli did that 
title love. 



SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 

THOMAS GRAY. 

[1716-1771.] 



One aneient hen she took delight to 

feed, 
The plodding pattern of the busy dame ; 
Which, ever and anon, impelled by 

need. 
Into her school, begirt with chickens, 

came ! 
Such favor did her past deportment 

claim : 
And, if Neglect had lavished on the 

ground 
Fragment of bread, she would collect 

the same ; 
For well she knew, and quaintly could 

expound. 
What sin it were to waste the smallest 

crumb she found. 

Herbs too she knew, and well of each 

could speak 
That in her garden sipped the silvery 

dew ; 
Where no vain flower disclosed a gaudy 

streak ; 
But herbs for use, and physic, not a 

few, 
Of gray renown, within those borders 

grew : 
Thetufted basil, pun-provoking thyme. 
Fresh baum, and marygold of cheerful 

hue ; 
The lowly gill, that never dares to 

climb ; 
And more 1 fain would sing, disdaining 

here to riiynie. 

Yet euphrasy may not be left unsung, 
That gives dim eyes to wander leagues 

around. 
And pungent radish, biting infant's 

tongue. 
And plantain ribbed, that heals the 

reaper's wound. 
And marjoram sweet, in shepherd's 

posy ibund. 
And lavender, whose spikes of azure 

bloom 
Shall be, erewhile, in arid bundles 

bound. 
To lurk amidst the labors of her loom, 
And crown her kerchiefs clean with 

mickle rare perfume. 



ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY 
CHURCHYARD. 

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, 
The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea ; 
The ploughman homeward jdods his 

weary way. 
And leaves the world to darkness and to 

me. 

Now fi.des the glimmering landscape on 

the sight. 
And all the air a solemn stillness holds. 
Save wliere the beetle wheels his droning 

flight. 
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant 

folds ; 

Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower 

The moping owl does to the moon com- 
plain 

Of such as, wandering near her secret 
bower. 

Molest her ancient solitary reign. 

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew- 
tree's shade. 

Where heaves the turf in many a moul- 
dering heap, 

Each in his narrow cell forever laid. 

The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. 

The breezy call of incense-breathing 
morn. 

The swallow twittering fiom the straw- 
built shed. 

The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing 
horn. 

No more shall rouse them from their 
lowly bed. 

For them no more the blazing hearth 

shall burn. 
Or busy housewife ply her evening care ; 
No children run to lisp their sire's return, 
Or climb his knees the envied kiss to 

share. 

Oft did the harvest to their sickle J'ield, 
Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has 
broke ; 



THOMAS GRAY. 



61 



How jocund did they drive their team 

afield ! 
How bowed the woods beneath their 

sturdy stroke ! 

Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, 
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure ; 
Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful 

smile 
The short and simple annals of the poor. 

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, 
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er 

gave, 
Await alike the inevitable hour ; — 
The paths of glory lead but to the grave. 

Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the 

fault, 
If memory o'er their tomb no trophies 

raise, 
"Where throuf^b the long-drawn aisle and 

fretted vault 
The pealing anthem swells the note of 

praise. 

Can storied urn or animated bust 

Back to its mansion call the fleeting 

breath ? 
Can Honor's voice provoke the silent dust. 
Or Flattery soothe the dull, cold ear of 

Death? 

Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid 
Some heart once pregnant with celestial 

fire ; 
Hands that the rod of empire might have 

swayed. 
Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre : 

But Knowledge to their eyes her ample 

page. 
Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er 

unroll ; 
Chill Penury repressed their noble rage. 
And froze the genial current of the soul. 

Full many a gem of purest ray serene 

The dark, unfathonted caves of ocean 
bear; 

Full many a flower is born to blush un- 
seen, 

And waste its sweetness on the desert air. 

Some village Hampden, that with daunt- 
less brenst 
The little tyrant of his fields withstood ; 



Some mute, inglorious Milton here may 
rest ; 

Some Cromwell, guiltless of his coun- 
try's blood. 

The applause of listening senates to com- 
mand. 
The threats of pain and ruin to despise, 
To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land. 
And read their history in a nation's eyes, 

Their lot forbade : nor circumscribed 

alone 
Their growing virtues, but their crimes 

confined ; 
Forbade to wade through slaughter to a 

throne. 
And shut the gates of mercy on mankind ; 

The struggling pangs of conscious truth 

to hide, 
To quench the blushes of ingenuous 

shame. 
Or heap tlie shrine of luxury and pride 
With incense kindled at the Muse's 

flame. 

Far from the madding crowd's ignoble 

strife 
Their sober wishes never learned to stray ; 
Along the cool, sequestered vale of life 
They kept the noiseless tenor of their 

way. 

Yet even these bones from insult to pro- 
tect. 

Some frail memorial still erected nigh, 

With uncouth rhymes and shapeless 
sculpture decked, 

Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. 

Their name, their years, spelt by the 

unlettered Muse, 
The place of fame and elegj' supply; 
And many a holy text around she strews, 
That teach the rustic moralist to die. 

For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey. 
This pleasing, anxious being e'er resigned. 
Left the warm precincts of the cheerful 

day, 
Nor cast one longing, lingering look be- 
hind ? 

On some fond breast the parting soul 
relies, 

Some pious drops the closing eye re- 
quires ; 



62 



SONGS OF THKEE CENTURIES. 



E'en from the tomb the voice of Nature 

cries, 
E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires. 

For thee, who, mindful of the unhon- 
ored dead, 

Dost in these lines their artless tale re- 
late ; 

If chance, by lonely contemplation led, 

Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy 
fate, 

Haply some hoary-headed swain may say : 
' ' Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn. 
Brushing with hasty steps the dews away. 
To meet the sun upon the upland lawn ; 

"There at the foot of yonder nodding 

beech, 
That wreathes its old, fantastic roots so 

high. 
His listless length at noontide would he 

stretch. 
And pore upon the brook that babbles 

by. 

"Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in 
scorn. 

Muttering his wayward fancies, he would 
rove; 

Now drooping, woful-wan, like one for- 
lorn, 

Or crazed with care, or crossed in hope- 
less love. 



"One morn I missed him on the cus- 
tomed hill, 

Along the heath, and near his favorite 
tree ; 

Another came, — nor yet beside the rill, 

Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was 
he; 

"The next, with dirges due, in sad array, 
Slow througli the church-way path we 

saw him borne ; — 
Approach and read (for thou canst read) 

the lay 
Graved on the stone beneath yon aged 

thorn." 

THE EPITAPH. 

Here rests his head upon the lap of earth, 
A youth to fortune and to fame un- 
known ; 



Fair Science frowned not on his humble 

birth. 
And Melancholy marked him for her own. 

Large was his bounty, and his soul sin- 
cere ; 

Heaven did a recompense as largely send : 

He gave to Misery (all he had) a tear ; 

He gained from Heaven ('t was all he 
wished) a friend. 

No further seek his merits to disclose, 

Or draw his frailties from their dread 
abode : 

(There they alike in trembling hope re- 
pose,) 

The bosom of his Father and his God. 



ODE ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF 
ETON COLLEGE. 

Ye distant spires, ye antique towers, 

That crown the watery glade, 
Where grateful Science still adores 

Her Henry's holy shade ; 
And ye, that from the stately brow 
Of Windsor's heights the expanse below 
Of grove, of lawn, of mead survey ; 

Whose turf, whose shade, whose flow- 
ers among 

Wanders the hoary Thames along 
His silver- winding way ! 

Ah, happy hills ! ah, pleasing shade ! 

Ah, fields beloved in vain ! 
Where once my careless childhood strayed, 

A stranger yet to jiain : 
I feel the gales that from ye blow 
A momentary bliss bestow. 
As, waving fresh their gladsome wing. 

My weary soul they seem to soothe. 

And, redolent of joy and youth, 
To breathe a second spring. 

Say, Father Thames, for thou hast seen 

Full many a sprightly race. 
Disporting on thy margent green, 

The paths of pleasure trace, 
W^ho foremost now delight to cleave 
With pliant arm thy glassy wave ? 
The captive linnet which inthrall ? 

What idle progeny succeed 

To chase the rolling circle's speed, 
Or urge the flying ball ? 



WILLIAM COLLINS. 



63 



While some, on earnest business bent, 

Their niunnnring labors ply 
'Gainst graver hoiii's, that bring constraint 

To sweeten liberty. 
Some bold adventurers disdain 
The limits of their little reign, 
And unknown regions dare descry : 

Still as they run, they look behind ; 

They hear a voice in every wind. 
And snatch a fearful joy. 

Gay hope is theirs, by fancy fed, 
Less pleasing when possessed ; 

The tear forgot as soon as shed, 
The sunshine of the breast. 

Tlieirs buxom health of rosy hue. 

Wild wit, invention ever new. 

And lively cheer of vigor born ; 

The thoughtless day, the easy night, 
The spirits pure, the slumbers light. 

That fly the ap[)roach of morn. 

Alas ! regardless of their doom. 

The little victims play; 
No sense have they of ills to come. 

Nor care beyond to-day ; 
Yet see how all around them wait 
The ministers of human fate. 
And black Misfoitune's baleful train. 

Ah! show them where in ambush 
stand. 

To seize their prey, the murtherous 
band ; 
Ah, tell them they are men ! 

These shall the fury [)assions tear, 

The vultures of the nrind. 
Disdainful Anger, pallid Fear, 

And Shame, that skulks behind; 
Or pining Love shall waste their youth. 
Or Jealousy with rankling tooth, 
Tliat inly gnaws the secret heart ; 

And Envy wan, and faded Care, 

Grim-visaged, comfortless Desi)air, 
And Sorrow's piercing dart. 

Ambition this shall tempt to rise. 

Then whirl the wretch from high, 
To bitter Scorn a sacrifice. 

And grinning Infamy. 
The stings of Falsehood those shall try. 
And hard Unkindness' altered eye. 
That mocks the tear it forced to flow ; 
And keen Remorse with blood defiled, 
And moody Madness laughing wild 
Amid severest woe. 



Lo ! in the vale of years beneath 

A grisly troojj are seen, — 
The painful family of Death, 

More hideous than their queen : 
This racks the joints, this fires the veins. 
That every laboring sinew strains. 
Those in the deeper vitals rage : 

Lo ! Poverty, to fill the band. 

That numbs the soul with icy hand ; 
And slow-consuming Age. 

To each his sufferings : all are men, 

Condemned alike to groan ; 
The tender for another's pain, 

The unfeeling for his own. 
Yet, ah! why should they know their 

fate. 
Since sorrow never comes too late. 
And happiness too swiftly flies ! 

Thought would destroy their paradise. 

No more ; where ignorance is bliss, 
'T is folly to be wise. 



WILLIAM COLLINS. 

[1720-1756.] 

DIRGE IN CYMBELINE. 

To fair Fidele's grassy tomb 

Soft maids and village hinds shallbring 
Each opening sweet of earliest bloom. 

And rifle all the breathing spring. 

No wailing ghost shall dare appear 
To vex with shrieks this quiet grove ; 

But shepherd lads assemble here. 
And melting virgins own their love. 

No withered witch shall here be seen, 
No goblins lead their nightly crew ; 

But female fays shall haunt the green, 
And dress thy grave with peai-ly dew. 

The redbreast oft at evening hours 
^Shall kindly lend his little aid. 

With hoary moss and gathered flowers 
To deck the ground where thou art laid. 

When howling winds and beating rain 
lu tempest shake tlie sylvan cell. 

Or midst the cliase upon the plain, 
The tender thought on thee shall dwell. 



64 



SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES, 



Each lonely scene shall thee restore, 
For thee the tear be duly shed ; 

Beloved till life can charm no more, 
And mourned till Pity's self be dead. 



ODE TO EVENING. 

If aught of oaten stop or pastoral song 
May hope, chaste Eve, to soothe thy 
modest ear. 
Like thy own solemn springs. 
Thy springs, and dying gales, — 

nymph reserved, while now the bright- 
haired Sun 
Sits in yon western tent, whose cloudy 
skirts. 
With braid ethereal wove, 
O'erhang his wavy bed : 

Now air is hushed, save where the weak- 
eyed bat, 
With short, shrill shriek flits by on leath- 
ern wing; 
Or where the beetle winds 
His small but sullen horn. 

As oft he rises midst the twilight path, 
Against the pilgrim borneinheedlesshuni ; 
Now teach me, maid composed. 
To breathe some softened stiain, 

Whose numbers, stealing through thy 

darkening vale, 
May not unseemly with its stillness suit ; 

As, musing slow, I hail 

Thy genial, loved return ! 

For when thy folding-star arising shows 
His paly circlet, at his warning lamp, 
The fragrant Hours, and Elves 
Who slept in buds the day, 

Aud many a Nymph who wreathes her 

brows with sedge. 
And sheds the freshening dew, and, love- 
lier still, 
The pensive Pleasures sweet, 
Prepare thy shadowy car. 

Then let me rove some wild and heathy 

scene ; 
Or find some ruin midst its dreary dells, 

Whose walls more awful nod 

By thy religious gleams. 



Or, if chill, blustering winds, or driving 
rain, 

Prevent my willing feet, be mine the hut 
That from the mountain's side 
Views wilds, and swelling floods. 

And hamlets brown, and dim-discovered 

spires ; 
And hears their simple bell, and marks 
o'er all 
Thy dewy fingers draw 
The gradual, dusky veil. 

While Spring shall pour his showers, as 

oft he wont. 
And bathe thy breathing tresses, meekest 
Eve! 
While Summer loves to sport 
Beneath thy lingering light ; 

While sallow Autumn fills thy lap with 

leaves ; 
Or AVinter, yelling through the troublous 
air. 
Affrights thy shrinking train, 
And rudely rends thy robes,— 

So long, regardful of thy quiet rule. 
Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, smiling 
Peace, 
Thy gentlest influence own, 
And love thy favorite name ! 



JAMES MERRICK. 

[1720-1769.] 

THE CHAMELEON. 

Oft has it been my lot to mark 
A i)roud, conceited, talking spaik, 
With eyes that hardly served at most 
To guard their master 'gainst a post ; 
Yet round the world the blade has been, 
To see whatever could be seen. 
Returning from his finished tour, 
Grown ten times perter than before ; 
Whatever word you chance to drop. 
The travelled fool your mouth will stop : 
"Sir, if my judgment you '11 allow — 
I 've seen — and sure I ought to know." 
So begs you 'd pay a (hie submission, 
And acquiesce in his decision. 




'Then let me rove some wild "and heathy scene." — Page 64. 



OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 



65 



Two travellers of such a cast, 
As o'er Arabia's wilds they passed, 
And on their way, in friendly chat, 
Now talked of this, and then of that, 
Discoursed awhile, 'm^ngst other mat- 
ter. 
Of the chameleon's form and nature. 
"A stranger animal," cries one, 
"Sure never lived beneath the sun: 
A lizard's body, lean and long, 
A fish's head, a serpent's tongue. 
Its foot with triple claw disjoined; 
And what a length of tail behind ! 
How slow its pace ! and then its hue — 
Who ever saw so fine a blue ? " 

"Hold there," the other quick replies ; 
"'T is green, I saw it with tiiese eyes, 
As late with open mouth it lay. 
And warmed it in the sunny ray ; 
Stretched at its ease the beast I viewed. 
And saw it eat the air for food." 

" I 've seen it, sir, as well as you, 
And must again affirm it blue ; 
At leisure I the beast surveyed 
Extended in the cooling shade." 

"'T is green, 't is green, sir, I assure 

"Green !" cries the other in a fury; 
"Why, sir, d'ye think I've lost my 

eyes?" 
" 'T were uogreat loss," the friend replies ; 
"For if they always serve you thus. 
You '11 find them but of little use." 

So high at last the contest rose. 
From words they almost came to blows : 
When luckily came by a third ; 
To him the question they referred. 
And begged he 'd tell them, if he knew. 
Whether the thing was green or blue. 

"Sirs," cries the umpire, "cease your 
pother ; 
The creature 's neither one nor t' other. 
I caught the animal last night. 
And viewed it o'er by candlelight ; 
I marked it well, 't was black as jet — 
You stare — but, sirs, I 've got it yet. 
And can produce it." — "Pray, sir, do; 
I '11 lay my life the thing is blue." 
"And I '11 be sworn, that when you 've 

seen 
The reptile, you '11 pronounce him green." 
"Well, then, at once to ease the doubt," 
Eeplies the man, "I '11 turn him out ; 
And when before your eyes I 've set liim. 
If you don't find him black, I '11 eat him." 

He said ; and full before their sight 
Produced the beast, andlo ! — 'twas white. 



Both stared; the man looked wondrous 

wise — 
"My children," the chameleon cries 
(Then first the creature found a tongue), 
"You all are right, and all are wrong: 
When next you talk of what you view, 
Think others see as well as you ; 
Nor wonder if you find that none 
Prefers your eyesight to his own." 



OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 

[1728 -1774.] 

FROM "THE DESERTED VILLAGE." 

Sweet was the sound, when oft, at 

evening's close 
Up yonder hill the village murmur rose ; 
There, as I passsed with careless steps and 

slow, 
The mingling notes came softened from 

below ; 
The swain responsive as the milkmaid 

sung. 
The sober herd that lowed to meet their 

young ; 
The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool. 
The playful children just let loose from 

school ; 
The watch-dog's voice that bayed the 

whispering wind. 
And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant 

mind, — 
These all in sweet confusion sought the 

shade. 
And filled each pause the nightingale had 

made. 
But now the sounds of population fsiil, 
No cheerful murmurs fluctuate in the 

gale. 
No busy steps the grass-grown footway 

tread. 
But all the bloomy flush of life is fled. 
All but yon widowed, solitary thing. 
That feebly bends beside the plashy 

spring ; 
She, wretched matron, forced in age, for 

bread. 
To strip the brook with mantling cresses 

spread, 
To pick her wintry fagot from the thorn. 
To seek her nightly shed, and weep till 

morn; 



66 



SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 



She only left of all the harmless train, 
The sad historian of the pensive plain. 

Near yonder copse, where once the 

garden smiled. 
And still where many a garden flower 

grows wild, 
There, where a few torn shrubs the place 

disclose. 
The village preacher's modest mansion 

rose. 
A man he was to all the country dear, 
And passing rich with forty pounds a 

year; 
Eemote from towns he ran his godly race, 
Nor e'er had changed, nor wished to 

change, his place ; 
Unpractised he to fawn, or seek for power, 
By doctrines fashioned to the varying 

hour ; 
Far other aims his heart had learned to 

prize. 
More skilled to raise the wretched than 

to rise. 
His house was known to all the vagrant 

train. 
He chid their wanderings, but relieved 

their pain ; 
The long-remembered beggar was his 

guest, 
Whose beard descending swept his aged 

breast ; 
The ruined spendthrift, now no longer 

proud, 
Claimed kindred there, and had his 

claims allowed ; 
The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay, 
Sat by his fire, and talked the night 

away ; 
Wept o'er his wounds, or tales of soitow 

done. 
Shouldered his crutch, and .showed how 

fields were won. 
Pleased with his guests, the good man 

learned to glow. 
And quite forgot their vices in their woe ; 
Careless their merits or their faults to 

scan. 
His pity gave ere charity began. 

Thus to relieve the wretched was his 

pride. 
And even his failings leaned to virtue's 

side : 
But in his duty prompt at every call. 
He watched and wept, he prayed and 

felt for all : 



And, as a bird each fond endearment 

tries 
To tempt its new-fledged offspring to the 

skies. 
He tried each aA, reproved each dull 

delay. 
Allured to brighter worlds, and led the 

way. 

Beside the bed where parting life was 

laid. 
And sorrow, guilt, and pain by turns 

dismayed. 
The reverend champion stood. At his 

control, 
Despair and anguish fled the struggling 

soul ; 
Comfort came down the trembling wretch 

to raise. 
And his last, faltering accents whispered 

praise. 

At church, with meek and unaffected 

grace, 
His looks adorned the venerable place ; 
Truth from his lips prevailed with double 

sway. 
And fools, who came to scofi", remained 

to pray. 
The service past, around the pious man. 
With steady zeal, each honest rustic ran ; 
Even children followed, with endearing 

wile. 
And plucked his gown, to share the good 

man's smile. 
His ready smile a parent's warmth ex- 

j)ressed. 
Their welfare pleased him, and their cares 

distressed ; 
To them his heart, his love, his griefs, 

were given, 
But all his serious thoughts had rest in 

heaven. 
As some tall cliff", that lifts its awful form. 
Swells from the vale, and midway leaves 

the storm, 
Though round its breast the rolling clouds 

are spread. 
Eternal sunshine settles on its head. 

Beside yon straggling fence that skirts 
the way. 
With blossomed furze tin profitably gay, 
There, inhisnoisymansion, skilled torule. 
The village master taught liislittleschool. 
A man severe he was, and stern to view ; 
[ 1 knew him well, and every truant knew i 



THOMAS PERCY. 



67 



Well had the boding tremblers learned 

to trace 
The day's disasters in his morning face ; 
Full well they laughed, with counterfeited 

glee, 
At all his jokes, for many a joke had he ; 
Full well the busy whisper, circling round. 
Conveyed the dismal tidings when he 

frowned. 
Yet he was kind, or if severe in aught. 
The love he bore to learning was in fault. 
The village all declared how much he 

knew; 
'T was certain he could write, and cipher 

too; 
Lands he could measure, times and tides 

presage. 
And even the story ran that he could gauge ; 
In arguing, too, the parson owned his skill, 
For, even though vanquished, he could 

argue still ; 
While words of learned length and thun- 
dering sound 
Amazed thegazingrustics ranged around ; 
And still they gazed, and still the wonder 

grew 
That one small head could carry all he 

knew. 

But past is all his fame. The very spot 
Where many a time he triumphed is for- 
got. 
Near yonder thorn, that lifts its head on 

high. 
Where once the sign-post caught the 

passing eye. 
Low lies that house where nut-brown 

draughts inspired. 
Where gray-beard mirth and smiling toil 

retired. 
Where village statesmen talked with 

looks profound. 
And news much older than their ale went 

round. 
Imagiuation fondly stoops to trace 
The parlor splendors of that festive place : 
The whitewashed wall ; the nicely sanded 

floor; 
The varnished clock that clicked behind 

the door ; 
The chest, contrived a double debt to pay, 
A bed by night, a chest of drawers by 

day ; 
The pictures placed for ornament and 

use; 
The twelve good rules ; the royal game of 



The hearth, except when winter chilled 
the day, 

With aspen boughs and flowers and fen- 
nel gay ; 

While broken teacups, wisely kept for 
show, 

Kanged o'er the chimney, glistened in a 
row. 

Vain, transitory splendors ! could not 

all 
Reprieve the tottering mansion from its 

fall ? 
Obscure it sinks, nor shall it more impart 
An hour's importance to the poor man's 

heart ; 
Thither no more the peasant shall repair 
To sweet oblivion of his daily care ; 
No more the farmer's news, the barber's 

tale. 
No more the woodman's ballad shall pre- 
vail ; 
No more tlie smith his dusky brow shall 

clear. 
Relax his ponderous strength, and lean 

to hear. 
The host himself no longer shall be found 
Careful to see the mantling blissgo round ; 
Northe coymaid, half willing to be prest, 
Shall kiss the cup to pass it to the rest. 



THOMAS PERCY. 
[1728-1811.] 

THE FRIAR OF ORDERS GRAY. 

It was a friar of orders gray 
Walked forth to tell his beads, 

And lie met with a lady fair, 
Clad in a pilgrim's weeds. 

"Now Christ thee save, thou reverend 
friar ! 

I pray thee tell to me. 
If ever at yon holy shrine 

My true-love thou didst see." 

"And how should I know your true-love 

From many another one?" 
"Oh ! by his cockle hat, and staff", 

And by his sandal shoon ; 



68 SONGS OF THREE CENTUEIES, 


" But chiefly by his face and mien, 


Ah, no ! he is dead, and laid in his grave, 


That were so fair to view, 


Forever to remain. 


His flaxen locks that sweetly curled, 




And eyes of lovely blue." 


" His cheek was redder than the rose, — 




Tlie comeliest youth was he ; 


"0 lady, he is dead and gone ! 


But he is dead and laid in his grave. 


Lady, he 's dead and gone ! 


Alas ! and woe is me." 


And at his head a green grass turf, 




And at his heels a stone. 


" Sigh no more, lady, sigh no more. 
Men were deceivers ever ; 




" Within these holy cloisters long 


One foot on sea and one on land. 


He languished, and he died. 


To one thing constant never. 


Lamenting of a lady's love, 




And 'j)laining of her pride. 


" Hadst thou been fond, hehadbeen false, 




And left thee sad and heavy ; 


"Here bore him barefaced on his bier 


For young men ever were lickle found. 


Six proper youths and tall ; 


Since summer trees were leafy." 


And many a tear bedewed his grave 




Within yon kirkyard wall." 


"Now say not so, thou holy friar, 




1 pray thee say not so ; 


" And art thou dead, thou gentle youth ? 


My love he had the truest heart, — 


And art thou dead and gone ? 


0, he was ever true ! 


And didst thou die for love of me ? 




Break, cruel lieart of stone !" 


"And art thou dead, thou much-loved 
youth, 
And didst thou die for me ? 


"0, weep not, lady, weep not so; 


Some ghostly comfort seek : 


Then farewell home; forevermore 


Let not vain sorrow rive thy heart, 


A pilgrim 1 will be. 


Nor tears bedew thy cheek." 






" But first upon my ti'ue-love's grave 
My weary limbs 1 '11 lay. 


"0 do not, do not, holy friar, 


My sorrow now rejirove ; 


And thrice I '11 kiss the green grass turf 


For I have lost the sweetest youth 


That wraps his breathless clay." 


That e'er won ladv's love. 




' 


"Yet stay, fair lady, rest awhile 


" And now, alas ! for thy sad loss 


Beneath this cloister wall ; 


I '11 evermore weep and sigh ; 


The cold wind through the hawthorn 


For thee I only wished to live, 


blows, 


For thee I wish to die." 


And drizzly rain doth fall." 


"Weep no more, lady, weep no more ; 


"0, stay me not, thou holy friar, 


Thy sorrow is in vain : 


stay me not, I pray ; 


For violets plucked, the sweetest shower 


No drizzly rain that falls on me 


Will ne'er make grow again. 


Can wash my fault away." 


" Our joys as winged dreams do fly ; 


"Yet stay, fair lady, turn again, 


Why then should sorrow last? 


And dry those jjcarly tears ; 


Since grief but aggravates thy loss, 


For see, beneath this gown of gray 


Grieve not for what is past." 


Thy own true-love ajipears. 


"0, say not so, thou holy friar! 


" Here, forced by grief and hopeless love. 
These holy weeds I sought ; 


1 pray thee say not so ; 


For since my true-love died for me. 


And here, amid these lonely walls. 
To end my days I thought. 


'T is meet my tears should flow. 


"And will he never come again ? 


" But haply, for my year of grace 


Will he ne'er come again ? 


Is not yet passed away. 



WILLIAM 


COWPER. 69 


Might I still hope to win thy love, 


But Kenipenfelt is gone, 


No longer would I stay." 


His victories are o'er ; 




And he and his eight hundred 


"Now farewell grief, and welcome joy 


Shall plough the wave no more. 


Once more unto my heart ; 




For since I 've found thee, lovely youth. 





We nevermore will part." 






LINES TO MY MOTHER'S PICTURE. 




THAT those lips had language ! Life 




has passed 




With me but roughly since I heard thea 
last. 


WILLIAM COWPER. 




Those lips are thine, — thy own sweet 


[1731-1800.] 


smile I see, 




The same that olt in childhood solaced 


LOSS OF THE ROYAL GEORGE. 


me; 




Voi(;e only fails, else liow distinct they say, 


Toll for the brave ! 


"Grieve not, my child; chase all thy 


The brave that are no more ! 


fears away !" 
The meek intelligence of those dear eyes 


All sunk beneath the wave 


Fast by their native shore ! 


(Blest be the art that can innuortalize. 




The art that baffles time's tyrannic claim 


Eight hundred of the brave. 


To quench it !) here shines on me still the 


Whose courage well was tried. 


same. 


Had made the vessel heel, 


Faithful remembrancer of one so dear, 


And laid her ou her side. 


welcome guest, though unexpected here ! 




Wliobid'stmehonor with an artless song, 


A land-breeze shook the shrouds 


Affectionate, a mother lost so long. 


And she was overset ; 


1 will ol)ey, not willingly alone, 

But gladly, as the precept were her own ; 


Down went the Royal George, 


With all her crew complete. 


And, while that face renews my filial grief. 




Fancy shall weave a chami for my relief, 


Toll for tJK^ brave ! 


Shall steep me in Elysian revery. 


Brave Kempcnfelt is gone ; 


A momentary dream that thou art she. 


His last sea-fight is fought. 


My mother ! when 1 learned that thou 


His work of glory done. 


wast dead. 




Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I 


It was not in the battle ; 


shed? 


No tempest gave the shock ; 


Hovered thy spirit o'er thy sorrowingson. 


She sprang no fatal leak. 


Wretch even then, life's journey just 


She ran upon no rock. 


begun ? 




Perhaps thou gav'st me, though unfelt, a 


His sword was in its sheath. 


kiss; 


His fingers held the pen, 


Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss — 


When Kenipenfelt went down 


Ah, that maternal smile ! it answers — 


With twice four hundred men. 


Yes. 




I heard the bell tolled on thy burial day, 


Weigh the vessel up. 


I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away. 


Once dreaded by our foes ! 


And, turning from my nursery window. 


And mingle with our cup 


drew 


The tear that England owes. 


A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu ! 




But was it such? It was. Where thou 


Her timbers yet are sound. 


art gone. 


And she may float again. 


Adieusaiidfarewellsareasonnd unknown. 


Full I'liargcd with Kngland's thunder, 


May I but meet thee on that peaceful 


And plough the distant main. 


shore, 



70 



SONGS OF THREE CENTUEIES. 



The parting words shall pass my lips no 

more ! 
Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my 

concern, 
Oft gave me promise of thy quick return ; 
What ardently I wished i long believed. 
And, di.sap})ointed still, was still deceived ; 
By expectation every day beguiled. 
Dupe of to-morrow even from a child. 
Thus many a sad to-morrow came and 

went. 
Till, all my stock of infant sorrows spent, 
1 learned at lust submission to my lot ; 
But, though 1 less deplored thee, ne'er 

forgot. 
Where once we dwelt our name is heard 

no more, 
Children not thine have trod my nui'sery 

floor; 
And where the gardener Robin, day by day. 
Drew me to school along the public way. 
Delighted with my bavvble coach, and 

wrapped 
I n scarlet mantle warm, and velvet capped, 
'T is now become a history little known. 
That once we called the pastoral house 

our own. 
Short-lived possession ! but the record fair, 
That memory keeps of all thy kindness 

there, 
Still outlives many a storm that has 

effa(>ed 
A thousand other themes less deeply 

traced. 
Thy nightly visits to my chamber made, 
That thou mightst know me safe and 

warmly laid, — 
All this, and, more endearing still than 

all, 
Thy constant flow of love, that knew no 

fall, 
Ne'er roughened by those cataracts and 

breaks 
That humor interposed too often makes, — 
All this, still legible in memory's page, 
And still to be so to my latest age, 
Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay 
Such honors to thee as my numbers may ; 
Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere, 
Not scorned in heaven, though little no- 
ticed here. 
Could Time, his flight reversed, restore 

the hours 
When, playing with thy vesture's tissued 

flowers. 
The violet, the pink, and jessamine, 
I pricked them into paper with a pin, 



(And thou wast happier than myself the 
while, 

Wouldst softly speak, and stroke my 
head, and smile,) — 

Could those few pleasant days again ap- 
pear. 

Might one wish bring them, would I wish 
them here ? 

I would not trust my heart, — the dear 
delight 

Seemsso to be desired, perhaps I might. 

But no, — what here we call our life is 
such. 

So little to be loved, and thou .so much. 

That I should ill requite thee to con- 
strain 

Thy unbound .spirit into bonds again. 
Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion's 
coast 

(The storms all weathered and the ocean 
crossed) 

Shoots into port at some well-havened 
isle. 

Where spices breathe and brighter sea- 
sons smile; 

There sits (piiescent on the floods, that 
show 

Her beauteous form reflected clear be- 
low, 

While airs impregnated with incense 

Around lier, fanning light her streamers 

gay.— 

So thou, with sails how swift ! hast 
reached the shore. 

Where tempests never beat, nor billows 
roar ; 

And thy loved consort, on the dangerous 
tide 

Of life, long .since has anchored by thy 
side. 

But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest. 

Always from port withheld, always dis- 
tressed, — 

Me howling blasts drive devious, tem- 
pest-tossed. 

Sails ripped, seams opening wide, and 
compass lost ; 

And day by day some current's thwarting 
force 

Sets me more distant from a prosperous 
course. 

Yet 0, the thought that thou art safe, 
and he ! — 

That thought is joy, arrive what may to 
me. 

My boast is not that I deduce my birth 




Drew me to school along the public way." — Page 70. 



WILLIAM JULIUS MICKLE. 



71 



From loins enthroned, and rulers of the 

earth ; 
But higher far my proud pretensions 

rise, — 
The son of parents passed into the skies. 
And now, farewell! — Time, unrevoked, 

has run 
His wonted course, yet what I wished is 

done. 
By contemplation's help, not sought in 

vain, 
I seem to have lived my childhood o'er 

again, — 
To have renewed the joys that once were 

mine 
Without the sin of violating thine ; 
And while the wings of Fancy still are 

free. 
And I can view this mimic show of thee. 
Time has but half succeeded in his 

theft, — 
Thyself remove<i, thy power to soothe me 

left. 



MYSTERIES OF PROVIDENCE. 

Gon moves in a mysterious way 

His wonders to p(erform ; 
He plants his footsteps in the sea. 

And rides upon the storm. 

Deep in unfathomable mines 

Of never-failing skill, 
He treasures up his bright designs. 

And works his sovereign will. 

Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take ! 

The clouds ye so much dread 
Are big with mercy, and shall break 

In blessings on your head. 

Judge not the Lord by feeble sense, 
But trust him for his grace ; 

Behind a frowning providence 
He hides a smiling face. 

His purposes will ripen fast, 

Unfolding every hour ; 
The bud may have a bitter taste, 

But sweet will be the flower. 

Blind unbelief is sure to err. 
And scan his works in vain ; 

God is his own inter[)reter, 
And he will make it plain. 



WILLIAM JULIUS MICKLE. 

[1734-1788] 



THE MARINER'S WIFE. 

And are ye sure the news is true? 

And are ye sure he 's weel ? 
Is this a time to think o' wark ? 

Mak haste, lay by your wheel ; 
Is this the time to spin a thread, 

When Colin 's at the door ? 
Reach down my cloak, 1 '11 to the quay. 

And see him come ashore. 
For there 's nae luck about the house, 

There 's nae luck at a' ; 
There 's little pleasure in the house 

When our gudeman 's awa'. 

And gie to me my bigonet. 

My bishop's satin gown ; 
For I maun tell the baillie's wife 

That Colin 's in the town. 
My Turkey slippers maun gae on, 

My stockings pearly blue ; 
It 's a' to pleasure our gudeman, 

For he 's baith leal and true. 

Rise, lass, and mak a clean fireside, 

Put on the muckle pot; 
Gie little Kate her button gown, 

And Jock his Sunday coat ; 
And mak their shoon as black as slaes. 

Their hose as white as suaw ; 
It 's a' to please my ain gudeman. 

For he 's been lang awa'. 

There 's twa fat hens upo' the coop. 

Been fed this month and mair; 
Mak haste and thraw their necks about, 

That Colin weel may faie ; 
And mak our table neat and clean, 

Let everything look bravv, 
For wha can tell how Colin fared 

When he was far awa' ? 

Sae tnie his heart, sae smooth his speech, 

His breath like caller air ; 
His very foot has music in 't 

As he comes up the stair. 
And will I see his face again ? 

And will I hear him speak ? 
I 'm downright dizzy wi' the thouglit, 

In troth 1 'm like to greet ! 

The cauld blasts o' the winter wmd, 
That thirled through my heart. 



SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 



They 're a' blawn by, I hae him safe, 
Till death we '11 never part ; 

But Ayhat puts parting in my head ? 
It may be far awa' ! 

The pi-esent moment is our ain, 
The ueist we never saw. 

Since Colin 's weel, and weel content, 

I hae nae mair to crave ; 
And gin I live to keep him sae, 

I 'm blest aboon the lave. 
And will I see his face again ? 

And will I hear him speak ? 
I 'm downright dizzy wi' the thought, 

In troth 1 'm like to greet. 
For there 's nae luck about the house, 

There 's nae luck at a' ; 
There 's little pleasure in the house 

When our gudeman 's awa'. 



JAMES BEATTIE. 

[173S-1803.] 

THE HERMIT. 

At the close of the day, when the ham- 
let is still, 

And mortals the sweets of forgetfulness 
prove, 

"WTien naught but the torrent is heard 
on the hill, 

And naught but the nightingale's song 
in the grove, 

'T was thus, by the cave of the moun- 
tain afar. 

While his harp rung symphonious, a 
hermit began ; 

No more with himself or with nature at 
war, 

He thought as a sage, though he felt as 
a man : 

"Ah! why, all abandoned to darkness 
and woe, 

Why, lone Philomela, that languishing 
fall ? 

For spring shall return, and a lover be- 
stow, 

And sorrow no longer thy bosom inthrall. 

But, if pity inspire thee, renew the sad 
lay,— 

Mourn, sweetest complainer, man calls 
thee to mourn ; 



0, soothe him whose pleasures like thine 

pass away ! 
Full quickly they pass, — but they never 

return. 

' ' Now, gliding remote on the verge of the 
sky, 

The moon, half extinguished, her cres- 
cent displays ; 

But lately I marked when majestic on 
high 

She shone, and the planets were lost in 
her blaze. 

Roll on, thou fair orb, and with glad- 
ness pursue 

The path that conducts thee to splendor 
again ! 

But man's faded glory what change shall 
renew? 

Ah, fool ! to exult in a glory so vain ! 

"'Tis night, and the landscape is lovely 
no more. 

I mourn, but, ye -woodlands, I mourn 
not for you ; 

For morn is approaching your charms to 
r(^storp, 

Perfumed with fresh fragrance, and glit- 
tering with dew. 

Nor yet for the ravage of winter I mourn, — 

Kind nature the embryo blossom will 
save ; 

But when shall spring visit the moulder- 
ing urn ? 

0, when shall day dawn on the night of 
the grave ? 

' ' 'T -was thus, by the glare of false science 
betrayed, 

That leads to bewilder, and dazzles to 
blind, 

My thoughts wont to roam from shade 
onward to shade, 

Desti-uction before me, and sorrow be- 
hind. 

'0 pity, great Father of light,' then I 
cried, 

'Thy creature, who fain would not wan- 
der from thee ! 

Lo, humbled in dust, I relinquish my 
pride ; 

From doubt and from darkness thou only 
canst free ! ' 

"And darkness and doubt are now flying 

away ; 
No longer I roam in conjecture forlorn. 



JOHN LANGHOENE. — MES. THRALE, 



So breaks on the traveller, faint and 

astray, 
The bright and the balmy effulgence of 

morn. 
See truth, love, and mercy in triumph 

descending, 
And nature all glowing in Eden's first 

bloom ! 
On the cold cheek of death smiles and 

roses are blending. 
And beauty immortal awakes from the 

tomb." 



JOHN LANGHOENE. 

[1735-1779-] 

THE DEAD. 

Of them who, wrapt in earth so cold, 
No more the smiling day shall view, 

Should many a tender tale be told. 
For many a tender thought is due. 

"Why else the o'ergrown paths of time 
Would thus the lettered sage explore, 

With pain these crumbling ruins climb, 
And on the doubtful sculpture pore ? 

Why seeks he with unwearied toil. 
Through Death's dim walks to urge his 
way, 

Eeclaim his long-asserted spoil, 
And lead oblivion into day ? 

'T is nature prompts, by toil or fear. 
Unmoved, to range through Death's 
domain ; 

The tender parent loves to hear 
Her children's story told again ! 



MRS. THRALE. 

[.740-1S22,] 

THE THREE WARNINGS. 

The tree of deepest root is found 
Least willing still to quit the ground; 
'T was therefore said by ancient sages. 

That love of life increased with years 
So much, that in our latter stages, 



When pains grow sliarp and sickness 
rages. 
The greatest love of life ajjjjears. 
This great affection to believe, 
Which all confess, but few perceive. 
If old assertions can't prevail, 
Be pleased to hear a modern tale. 

When sports went round, and all were 

.gay> 

On neighbor Dodson's wedding-day. 
Death called aside the jocund groom 
With him into another room. 
And, looking grave, "You must," says 

he, 
"Quit your sweet l)ride, and come with. 

me." 
"With you ! and ([uit my Susan's side? 
With you ! " the hapless husband cried ; 
"Young as I am, 'tis monstrous hard! 
Besides, in truth, 1 'm not prepared : 
My thoughts on other matters go ; 
This is my wedding-day, you know." 

What more he urged I have not heard. 

His reasons could not well be stronger; 
So Death the poor delin(|uent spared, 

And left to live a little longer. 
Y^et calling up a serious look, 
His hour-glass trembled while he spoke. 
"Neighbor," he said, "farewell ! no more 
Shall Death disturb your mirthful hour : 
And further, to avoid all blame 
Of cruelty upon my name, 
To give you time for preparation. 
And fit you for your future station. 
Three several warnings you shall have. 
Before you 're summoned to the grave; 
Willing for once I '11 quit my prey. 

And grant a kind reprieve. 
In hopes you '11 have no more to say. 
But when I call again this way. 

Well pleased the world willleave." 
To these conditions both consented. 
And parted perfectly contented. 

What next the hero of our tale befell, 
How long he lived, how wise, how well. 
How roundly he pursued his course. 
And smoked his pijie, and stroked his 
horse. 

The willing muse shall tell : 
He chaffered, then he bought and sold, 
Nor once perceived his growing old. 

Nor thought of Death as near : 
His friends not false, his wife no shrew, 
Many his gains, his children few, 



74 



SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 



He passed his hours in peace. 
But while he viewed his wealth increase, 
While thus along life's dusty road 
The beaten track content he trod, 
Old Time, whose haste no mortal spares, 
Uncalled, unheeded, unawares. 

Brought oil his eightieth year. 
And now, one night, in musing mood, 

As all alone he sate, 
The unwelcome messenger of Fate 

Once more before him stood. 

Half killed with anger and surprise, 
"So soon returned!" Old Dodson cries. 
"So soon, d' ye call it !" Death replies ; 
"Surely, my friend, you 're but iu jest ! 

Since I was here Ijefore 
'T is six-and-thirty years at least, 

And you are now fourscore." 

"So much the worse," the clown re- 
joined ; 

"To spare the aged would be kind : 

However, see your search be legal; 

And your authority, — is 't regal? 

Else you are come on a fool's errand. 

With but a secretary's warrant. 

Beside, you promised me three warn- 
ings. 

Which 1 have looked for nights and 
mornings ; 

But for that loss of time and ease 

I can recover damages." 

"I know," cries Death, "that at the 
best 
I seldom am a welcome guest ; 
But don't be captious, friend, at least : 
I little thought you 'd still be able 
To stump about your farm and stable : 
Your years have run to a great length ; 
I wish you joy, though, of your strength ! " 

"Hold," says the fiirmer, "not so fast! 
I have been lame these four years past." 

"And no great wonder," Death replies : 
"However, you still keep your eyes; 
And sure to see one's loves and friends 
For legs and arms would make amends." 

"Perhaps," says Dodson, "soitmight,» 
But latterly I 've lost my sight." 

" This is a shocking tale, 't is true ; 
But still there 's comfort left for you : 
Each strives your sadness to amuse ; 
I warrant you hear all the news." 

" There 's none," cries he ; and if there 
were. 



I 'm grown so deaf, I could not hear." 
"Nay, then," the spectre stern re- 
joined, 
"These are unjustifiable yearnings: 
If you are lame, and deaf, and blind, 
You 've had your three sufficient 
warnings ; 
So come along, no more we '11 part." 
He said, and touched him with his dart. 
And now Old Dodson, turning pale. 
Yields to his fate, — so ends my tale. 



ANNA L. BAEBAULD. 
[1743- 1825.] 

THE SABBATH OF THE SOUL. 

Sleep, sleep to-day, tormenting cares, 

Of earth and folly born ; 
Ye shall not dim the light that streams 

From this celestial morn. 

To-morrow will be time enough 

To feel your harsh control ; 
Ye shall not violate, this day. 

The Sabbath of my soul. 

Sleep, sleep forever, guilty thoughts ; 

Let fires of vengeance die ; 
And, purged from sin, may I behold 

A God of purity ! 



THE DEATH OF THE VIRTUOUS. 

Sweet is the scene when virtue dies ! 

When sinks a righteous soul to rest,- 
How mildly beam the closing eyes. 

How gently heaves the expiring breast ! 

So fades a summer cloud away. 

So sinks the gale when storms are o'er, 

So gently shuts the eye of day, 
So dies a wave along the shore. 

Triumphant smiles the victor brow. 
Fanned by some angel's purple wing ; — 

Where is, 6 grave ! thy victory now ? 
And where, insidious death ! thy 
sting ? 

Farewell, conflicting joys and fears. 
Where light and shade alternate dwell ! 



SUSANNA BLAMIRE. — JOHN LOGAN. 



How bright the unchanging morn ap- 
pears ; — 
Farewell, inconstant world, farewell ! 

Life's labor done, as sinks the day, 
Light from its load the spirit Hies ; 

While heaven and earth combine to say, 
"Sweet is the scene when virtue dies !" 



LIFE. 

Life ! I know not what thou art, 
But know that thou and I must j)art ; 
And when, or how, or where we met, 
I own to me 's a secret yet. 

Life ! we 've been long together 
Through pleasant and through cloudy 

weather : 
'T is hard to i>art when friends are dear, — 
Perhaps 't will cost a sigh, a tear ; 
— Then steal away, give little warning. 

Choose thine own time ; 
Say not Good Night, — but in some 
brighter clime 

Bid me Good Morning. 



SUSANNA BLAMIRE. 
[1747-1794.] 



WHAT AILS THIS HEART O' MINE? 

What ails this heart o' mine ? 

What ails this watery ee ? 
What gars me a' turn pale as death 

When I take leave o' thee ? 
When thou art far awa', 

Thou 'It dearer grow to me ; 
But change 0' place and change 0' folk 

May gar thy fancy jee. 

When I gae out at e'en. 

Or walk at morning air. 
Ilk rustling bush will seem to say, 

I used to meet thee there. 
Then 1 '11 sit down and cry. 

And live aneath the tree, 
And when a leaf fa's i' my lap, 

I '11 ca' 't a word frae thee. 

I '11 hie me to the bower 
That thou wi' roses tied. 



And where wi' mony a blushing bud 

1 strove myself to hide. 
I '11 doat on ilka spot 

Where I ha'e been wi' thee ; 
And ca' to mind some kindly word, 

By ilka burn and tree. 



JOHN LOGAN. 

[1748 -1788.] 

TO THE CFCKOO. 

Hail, beauteous stranger of the grove ! 

Thou messenger of spring ! 
Now heaven repairs thy lural seat, 

And woods thy welcome sing. 

What time the daisy decks the green, 

Thy certain voice we hear ; 
Hast thou a star to guide thy path, 

Or mark the rolling year? 

Delightful visitant ! with thee 

I hail the time of flowers. 
And hear the sound of music sweet 

From birds among the bowers. 

The school-boy, wandering through the 
wood 

To pull the primrose gay. 
Starts, the new voice of spring to hear, 

And imitates thy lay. 

What time the pea puts on the bloom. 

Thou fiiest thy vocal vale, 
An annual guest in other lands, 

Another spring to hail. 

Sweet bird ! thy bower is ever green. 

Thy sky is ever clear ; 
Thou hast no sorrow in thy song, 

No winter in thy year ! 

0, could I fly, I 'd fly with thee ! 

We 'd make, with joyful wing, 
Our annual visit o'er the globe, 

Companions of the spring. 



YARROW STREAM. 

Thy banks were bonnie, Yarrow stream, 
When first on thee 1 met my lover; 
Thy banks how dreary, Yari'ow stream, 
When now thy waves his body cover ' 



SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 



Forever now, Yarrow stream, 
Thou art to rne a stream of sorrow ; 
For never on thy hanks shall I 
Behold my love, — the flower of Yarrow ! 

He promised me a milk-white horse, 
To bear me to his father's bowers ; 
He promised me a little page, 
To squire me to his father's towers. 

He promised me a wedding-ring, 
The wedding-day was fixed to-morrow ; 
Now he is wedded to his grave, 
Alas ! a watery grave in Yarrow ! 

Sweet were his words when last we met. 
My passion as I freely told him ; 
Clasped in his arms, I little thought 
That I should nevermore behold him. 

Scarce was he gone, I saw his ghost, ■ — 
It vanished with a shriek of sorrow ; 
Thrice did the Water Wraith ascend. 
And give a doleful groan through Yarrow ! 

His mother from the window looked. 
With all the longing of a mother; 
His little sister, weeping, walked 
The greenwood path to meet her brother. 

They sought him east, they sought him 

west. 
They sought him all the forest thorough ; 
They only saw the clouds of night. 
They only heard the roar of Yarrow ! 

No longer from thy window look, — 
Thou hast no son, thou tender mother! 
No longer walk, thou lovely maid, — 
Alas ! thou hast no more a brother ! 



No longer seek him east or west. 
No longer search the forest thorough, 
For, murdered in the night so dark. 
He lies a lifeless corpse in Yarrow ! 

The tears shall never leave my cheek ; 
No other youth shall be my marrow; 
I '11 seek thy body in the stream. 
And there with thee I '11 sleep in Yarrow ! 

The tear did never leave her cheek : 
No other youth became her marrow ; 
She found his body in the stream, 
A.nd with him now she sleeps in Yarrow. 



UNKNOWN. 

BOKNIE GEORGE CAMPBELL. 

Hie upon Hielands, 

And low upon Tay, 
Bonnie George Campbell 

Kade out on a day. 
Saddled and bridled 

And gallant rade he ; 
Hame came his guile horse, 

But never came he. 

Out came his iuild mither 

Greeting fu' sair, 
And out came his l)<)nnie bride 

Rivin' her liair. 
Saddled and bridled 

And booted rade he ; 
Toom hame came the saddle, 

But never came he. 

" My meadow lies green. 

And my corn is unshorn ; 
My barn is to build. 

And my babie 's unborn." 
Saddled and bridled 

And booted rade he ; 
Toom hame came the saddle, 

But never came he ! 



UNKNOAVN. 

WALY, WALY, BUT LOVE BE BONNY. 

0, WALY, waly nji the bank, 

And waly, waly down the brae, 
And waly, waly yon burnside, 

Where I and my love wont to gae. 
I leaned my back unto an aik. 

And thought it was a tnistv tree, 
But first it bowed, and syne it brak', 

Sae my true love did lightly me. 

0, waly, walj', but love is bonny, 

A little time while it is new ; 
But when 't is auld, it waxeth cauld, 

And fades away like morning dew. 
0, wherefore should I busk my head? 

Or wherefore should I kame my hair? 
For my true love has me forsook. 

And says he '11 never love me mair. 

Now Arthur-Seat shall be my bed. 
The sheets shall ne'er be filled by me; 




HE TEARS SHALL NEVER LEAVE MV CHEEK." — Page 76. 



UNKNOWN. 



77 



Saint Anton's well shall be my drink, 
Since my true love 's forsaken nie, 

Martinmas wind, when wilt thou blaw. 
And shake the green leaves off the 
tree? 

gentle death ! when wilt thou come ? 
For of my life I am weary. 

'T is not the frost that freezes fell. 

Nor blowing snow's inclemency; 
'T is not sic cauld that makes me cry. 

But my love's heart grown cauld to me. 
"When we came in by Glasgow town, 

We were a comely sight to see ; 
My love was clad in the black velvet, 

And I mysel' in cramasie. 

But had I wist, before I kissed. 
That love had been so ill to win, 

1 'd locked my heart in a case of gold, 

And pinned it with a silver pin. 
And 0, if my young babe were born, 

And set upon the nurse's knee. 
And I mysel' were dead and gane, 

Wi' the green grass growing over me ! 



UNKNOAVN. 

LADY MARY ANN. 

0, Lady Mary Ann looked o'er the cas- 
tle wa', 

She saw three bonnie boys playing at 
the ba', 

The youngest he was the flower amang 
them a' : 
My bonnie laddie's young, but he's 
growiu' yet. 

"0 father, father, an' ye think it fit, 
AVe '11 send him a year to the college yet : 
We '11 sew a green ribbon round about 

his hat. 
And that will let them ken he's to 

marry yet." 

Lady Mary Ann was a flower in the dew, 
Sweet was its smell, and bonnie was its 

hue. 
And the langer it blossomed the sweeter 

it grew ; 
For the lily in the bud will be bonnier 

yet. 



Young Charlie Cochran was the sprout 

of an aik, 
Bonnie and blooming and straight was 

its make. 
The sun took delight to shine for its 

sake ; 
And it will be the brag o' the forest yet. 

The summer is gone when the leaves they 

were green, 
And the days are awa' that we hae seen. 
But far better days I trust will come 

again ; 
For my bonnie laddie's young, but 

he 's growing yet. 



UNKNOWN. 

THE BOATIE ROWS. 

0, WEEL may the boatie row, 

And better may she speed ; 
And liesome may the boatie row 

That wins the bairnies' bread. 
The boatie rows, the boatie rows, 

The boatie rows indeed ; 
And weel may the boatie row 

That wins the bairnies' bread. 

I coost my line in Largo Bay, 

And fishes I catched nine ; 
'T was three to boil and three to fry, 

And three to bait the line. 
The boatie lows, tlie boatie rows, 

The boatie rows indeed, 
And happy be the lot o' a' 

Wha wishes her to sjieed. 

0, weel may the boatie row. 

That fills a heavy creel, 
And deeds us a' frae tap to tae. 

And buys our ]iarritcli meal. 
The boatie rows, the boatie rows, 

The boatie rows, indeed, 
And happy be the lot o' a' 

That wish the boatie speed. 

When Jamie vowed he wad be mine. 

And wan frae me my heart, 
0, muckle ligliter grew my creel — 

He swore we 'd never part. 
The boatie rows, the boatie rows, 

The boatie rows fu' weel ; 
And muckle lighter is the load 

When love bears up the creel. 



78 



SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 



My kurtch I put upo' my head, 

And dressed mysel' fu' braw ; 
I trow my heart was dough and wae, 

When Jamie gade awa'. 
But weel may the boatie row, 

And lucky be her part, 
And lightsome be the lassie's care 

That yields an honest heart. 



UNKNOWN. 

GLENLOGIE. 

Threescore o' nobles rade up the king's 

ha'. 
But bonnie Glenlogie 's the flower o' 

them a', 
Wi' his milk-white steed and his bonnie 

black e'e, 
"Glenlogie, dear mither, Glenlogie for 

me!" 

"0, haud your tongue, daughter, ye '11 

get better than he." 
"0, say nae sae, mither, for that canna 

be; 
Though Doumlie is richer and greater 

than he. 
Yet if I maun tak him, I '11 certainly 

dee. 

""^Tiere will T get a bonnie hoy, to win 

hose and shoon, 
"Will gae to Glenlogie, and come again 

soon?" 
"0, here am I a bonnie boy, to win hose 

and shoon, 
Will gae to Glenlogie and come again 

soon." 

When he gaed to Glenlogie, 't was 

" Wash and go dine" ; 
'T was " Wash ye, my pretty boj% wash 

and go dine." 
" 0, 't was ne'er my father's fashion, and 

it ne'er shall be mine 
To gar a lady's errand wait till I dine. 

"But there is, Glenlogie, a letter for 

thee." 
The first line that he read, a low laugh 

gave he ; 



The next line that he read, the tear 

blindit his e'e ; 
But the last line that he read, he gart 

the table flee. 

" Gar saddle the black horse, gar saddle 

the brown ; 
Gar saddle the swiftest steed e'er rade 

frae a town" : 
But lang ere the horse was drawn and 

brought to the green, 
0, bonnie Glenlogie was twa mile his 

lane. 

When he came to Glenfeldy's door, little 
mirth was there ; 

Bonnie Jean's mother was tearing her 
hair. 

"Ye 're welcome, Glenlogie, ye 're wel- 
come," said she, — 

"Ye 're welcome, Glenlogie, your Jeanie 
to see." 

Pale and wan was she, when Glenlogie 

gaed ben. 
But red and rosy grew she, whene'er he 

sat down; 
She turned awa' her head, but the smile 

was in her e'e, 
" 0, binna feared, mither, 1 '11 maybe no 

dee." 



UNKNOWN. 

JOHN DAVIDSON. 

John Davidsox and Tib his wife 
Sat toastin' their taes ae night. 

When somethin' started on the fluir 
An' blinked by their sight. 

"Guidwife!" quo' John, "did ye see 
that mouse? 
Wliar sorra was the cat?" 
"A mouse? " — "Ay, a mouse." — "Na, 
na, Guidnian, 
It wasna a mouse, 'twas a rat." 

"Oh, oh ! Guidwife, to think ye 've been 

Sae lang about the house 
An' no to ken a mouse frae a rat ! 

Yon wasna a rat, but a mouse ! " 

"I've seen mair mice than you, Guid- 



An' what think ye o' that ! 



RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN. — THOMAS CHATTERTON. 79 



Sae hand your tongue an' say uaemair, — ■ 
1 tell ye 'twas a rat." 

"Me haud my tongue for you, Guidwife ! 

I "11 be maister o' this house, — 
I saw it as plain as een could see, 

An' I tell ye 't was a mouse !" 

" If you 're the maister o' the house. 

It 's I 'm the mistress o' 't ; 
An' I ken best what 's i' the house, — 

Sae I tell ye 't was a rat." 

' ' Weel, weel, G uidwife; gae mak the brose. 

An' ca' it what ye please." 
Sae up she gat an' made the brose. 

While John sat toastin' his taes. 

They suppit an' suppit an' suppit the 
brose. 
An' aye their lips played smack ; 
They suppit an' suppit an' suppit the 
brose 
Till their lugs began to crack. 

" Sic fules we were to fa' out, Guidwife, 
About a mouse." — "A what ! 

It 's a lee ye tell, an' I say again 
It wasna a mouse, 'twas a rat." 

"Wad ye ca' me a leear to my very face ? 

JMy faith, but ye craw croose ! — 
I tell ye, Tib, I never will bear 't, — 

'T was a mouse." — "'T was a rat." — 
"'T was a mouse." 

Wi' that she struck him ower the pow. 

"Ye dour auld doit, tak' that ! 
Gae to your bed, ye cankered sumph ! 

'T was a rat." — "'Twas a mouse!" — 
" 'T was a rat ! " 

She sent the brose-cup at his heels 

As he hirpled ben the house ; 
But he shoved out his head as he steekit 
the door. 
An' cried. '"T was a mouse, 't was a 
mouse!" 

Y^et when the auld carle fell asleep, 

She paid him back for that. 
An' roared into his sleepin' lug, 

"'Twasarat, 't wasarat, 'twasarat!" 

Tlie deil be wi' me, if I think 

It was a beast at all. 
Next mornin', when she sweept the floor, 

She found wee Johnie's ball ! 



RICHARD BRINSLEY SHER- 
IDAN. 

[i7Si-i8i6.] 

HAD I A HEART FOR FALSEHOOD 
FRAMED. 

Had I a heart for falsehood framed, 

I ne'er could injure you ; 
For though your tongue no promise 
claimed, 

Your charms would make me true : 
To you no soul shall bear deceit, 

No stranger offer wrong ; 
But friends in all the aged you '11 meet, 

And lovers in the young. 

For when they learn that you have blest 

Another with your heart, 
They '11 bid aspiring passion rest, 

And act a brotlier's part. 
Then, lady, dread not here deceit, 

Nor fear to suffer wrong ; 
For friends in all the aged you '11 meet, 

And brothers in the young. 



THOMAS CHATTERTON. 

[1752-1770.] 

THE MINSTREL'S SONG IN ELLA. 

0, SING unto my roundelay ! 

0, drop the briny tear with me ! 
Dance no more at holiday, 
Like a running river be. 
My love is dead. 
Gone to his death -bed. 
All under the willow-tree. 

Black his hair as the winter night, 

White his neck as the summer snow. 
Ruddy his face as the morning light ; 
Cold he lies in the grave below. 
My love is dead. 
Gone to his death-bed, 
All under the willow-tree. 

Sweet his tongue as throstle's note. 

Quick in dance as thought was he ; 
Deft his tabor, cudgel stout ; 
0, he lies by the willow-tree ! 
My love is dead. 
Gone to his death -bed. 
All under the willow-tree. 



80 



SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 



Hark ! the raven flaps his wing 

In the briered dell below ; 
Hark ! the death-owl loud doth sing 
To the nightmares as they go. 
My love is dead, 
Gone to his death-bed, 
All under the willow-tree. 

See ! the white moon shines on high ; 

Whiter is uiy true-love's shroud. 
Whiter than the morning sky, 
Whiter than the evening cloud. 
My love is dead, 
Gone to liis death-bed. 
All under the willow-tree. 

Here, upon my true-love's grave. 
Shall the garish flowers be laid, 
Nor one holy saint to save 
All the sorrows of a maid. 
My love is dead. 
Gone to his death-bed, 
All under the willow-tree. 

With my hands 1 '11 bind the briers 

Round his holy corse to gre ; 
Elfin-fairy, light your fires. 
Here my body still shall be. 
My love is dead, 
Gone to his death-bed, 
All under the willow-tree. 

Come with acorn cup and thorn, 

Drain my heart's blood all away; 
Life and all its good I scorn, 
Dance by night, or feast by day. 
My love is dead. 
Gone to his death-bed. 
All under the willow-tree. 

Water-witches, crowned with reytes, 
Bear me to your deadly tide. 

I die — I come — my true-love waits. 
Thus the damsel spake, and died. 



GEORGE CRABBE. 

[1754-1832.] 

ISAAC ASHFORD. 

Next to these ladies, but in naught 
allied, 
A noble peasant, Isaac Ashford, died. 
Noble he was, contemning all things mean, 



His truth unquestioned and his soul 
serene : 

Of no man's presence Isaac felt afraid ; 

At no man's question Isaac looked dis- 
mayed : 

Shame knew him not, he dreaded no 
disgrace ; 

Truth, simple truth, was written in his 
face; 

Yet while the serious thought his soul 
approved. 

Cheerful he seemed, and gentleness he 
loved ; 

To bliss domestic he his heart resigned. 

And with the firmest, had the fondest 
mind. 

Were others joyful, he looked smiling on, 

And gave allowance where he needed none ; 

Good he refused with future ill to buy, 

Nor knew a joy that caused refiection's 
sigh. 

A friend to virtue, his unclouded breast 

No envy stung, no jealousy distressed 

(Bane of the poor ! it wounds their weaker 
mind 

To miss one favor which their neighbors 
find); 

Yet far was he from stoic pride removed ; 

He felt humanely, and he warmly loved. 

I marked his action when his infant died, 

And his old neighbor for oflence was tried ; 

The still tears, stealing down that fur- 
rowed cheek. 

Spoke pity plainer than the tongue can 
speak. 

If pride were his, 't was not their vulgar 
pride 

Who, in their base contempt, the great 
deride ; 

Nor pride in learning, though my clerk 
agreed. 

If fate should call him, Ashford might 
succeed ; 

Nor pridein rusticskill, although weknew 

None his superior, and his equals few : 

But if that spirit in his soul had place. 

It was the jealous pride that shuns dis- 
grace ; 

A pride in honest fame, by virtue gained, 

In sturdy boys to virtuous labors trained ; 

Pride in the power that guards his coun- 
try's coast. 

And all that Englishmen enjoy and boast ; 

Pride in a life that slander's tongue defied. 

In fact, a noble passion, misnamed [)ride. 
He had no party's rage, no sectary's 
whim ; 




"Mine be a cot BESinE the him,." — Page Si. 



SAMUEL KOGEKS. 



81 



Christian and countryman was all with 
him, 

True to his church he came, no Sunday- 
shower 

Kept him at home in that important hour ; 

Norhisfirm feet could one jiersuadiiig sect 

By the strong glare of their new light 
direct : — 

"On hope, in mine own sober light, Igaze, 

But should be blind and lose it in your 
blaze." 
In times severe, when many a stui'dy 
swain 

Felt it his pride, his comfort, to complain, 

Isaac their wants would soothe, his own 
would hide. 

And feel in that his comfort and his pride. 
At length he found, when seventy years 
were run. 

His strength departed and his labor done ; 

When, save his honest fame, he kept no 
more ; 

But lost his wife and saw his children 
poor. 

'T was then a spark of — say not discon- 
tent— 

Stnick on his mind, and thus he gave it 
vent : 
"Kind are 3'Our laws ('tis not to be 
denied) 

That in yon house for ruined age provide. 

And they are just ; when young, we give 
you all, 

And then for comforts in our weakness 
call. 

Why then this proud reluctance to be 
fed. 

To join your poor and eat the parish- 
bread ? 

But yet I lingei', loath with him to feed 

Who gains his plenty by the sons of need : 

He who, by contract, all your paupers 
took. 

And gauges stomachs with an anxious 
look : 

On some old master I could well depend ; 

See him with joy and thank him as a 
friend ; 

But ill on him who doles the day's supply. 

And counts our chances who at night 
may die : 

Yet help me. Heaven ! and let me not 
complain 

Of what befalls me, but the fate sustain." 
Such were his thoughts, and so re- 
signed he grew ; 

Daily he placed the workhouse in his view ! 
6 



But came not there, for sudden was his 

fate. 
He dropt expiring at his cottage-gate. 

I feel his absence in the hours of prayer, 
And view his seat, and sigh for Isaac there ; 
I see no more those white locks thiuly 

spread 
Bound the bald polish of that honored 

head ; 
No more tliat awful glance on playful 

wight 
Compelled to kneel and tremble at the 

sight. 
To fold his lingers all in dread the while, 
Till Mister Ashford softened to a smile ; 
No more that meek and suppliant look 

in prayer. 
Nor the pure faith (to give it force) are 

there : . . . . 
But he is blest, and I lament no more, 
A wise good man contented to be poor. 



SAMUEL ROGERS. 

[1763-1S55.] 

A WISH. 

Mine be a cot beside the hill ; 
A bee-hive's hum shall soothe my ear; 
A willowy brook that turns a mill. 
With many a fall shall linger near. 

The swallow, oft, beneath my thatch 
Shall twitter from her clay-built nest ; 
Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch. 
And share my meal, a welcome guest. 

Around my ivied porch shall spring 
Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew ; 
And Lucj% at her wheel, shall sing 
In russet gown and apron blue. 

The village-church among the trees, 
Where first our marriage-vows were given, 
With mei'rj' peals shall swell the breeze, 
And point with taper spire to heaven. 



ITALIAN SONG. 

Dear is my little native vale. 

The ring-dove builds and murmurs there ; 

Close by my cot she tells her tale 

To everj' passing villager. 



SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 



The squirrel leaps from tree to tree, 
And shells his nuts at liberty. 

In orange groves and myrtle bowers, 
That breathe a gale of fragrance round, 
I charm the fairy-footed hours 
AVith my loved lute's lomantic sound; 
Of crowns of living laurel weave 
For those that win the race at eve. 

The shepherd's horn at break of day. 
The ballet danced in twilight glade, 
The canzonet and roundelay 
Sung in the silent greenwood shade : 
These simple joys that never fail 
Shall bind me to my native vale. 



EGBERT BURNS. 
[1759-1796-1 

OF A' THE AIRTS THE WIND CAN 
BLAW. 

Of a' the airts the wind can blaw, 

I dearly like the west ; 
For there the bonnie lassie lives, 

The lassie I lo'e best. 
There wild woods grow, and rivers row. 

And monie a hill 's between ; 
But day and night my fancy's flight 

Is ever wi' my Jean. 

I see lier in the dewy flowers, 

I see her sweet and fair ; 
I hear her in the tunefu' birds, 

I hear her charm the air ; 
There 's not a bonnie flower that springs 

By foimtain, shaw, or green, — 
There 's not a bonnie bird that sings. 

But minds me o' my Jean. 



MARY MORISON. 

Mary, at thy window he ! 

It is the wished, the trysted hour ! 
Those smiles and glances let me see. 

That make the miser's treasure poor : 
How blithely wad I bide the stoure, 

A weary slave frae sun to sun. 
Could I the rich reward secure. 

The lovely Mary Morison. 



Yestreen when to the trembling string 

The dance gaed through the lighted ha', 
To tliee my fancy took its wing, 

I sat, but neither heard nor saw. 
Though this was fair, and that was braw, 

And yon the toast of a' the town, 
I sighed, and said amang them a', 

"Ye are na Mary Moiison." 

Mary, canst thou wreck his peace 

Wha for thy sake wad gladly dec? 
Or canst thou break that heart of his, 

Whase only faut is loving thee? 
If love for love thou wilt na gie. 

At least be pity to me shown ; 
A thought ungentle canna be 

The thought 0' Mary Morison. 



HIGHLAND MARY. 

Ye banks and braes and streams around 

The castle o' Montgomery, 
Green be your woods, and fair yourf owers. 

Your waters never drumlic ! 
There simmer ilrst unfauld her robes 

And there the langest tarry ! 
For there I took the last fareweel 

0' my sweet Highland Mary. 

How sweetly bloomed the gay rreen birk, 

How rich the hawthorn's 1 lossom, 
As underneath their fragrant shade 

I claspe<l her to my bosom ! 
The golden hours on angel wings 

Flew o'er me and my dearie ; 
For dear to me as light and life 

Was my sweet Highland Mary. 

Wi' monie a vow and locked embrace 

Our ])arting was fu' tendei'; 
And pledging aft to meet again. 

We toi-e ourselves asunder; 
But, 0, fell Death's untimely frost, 

That nipt my flower sae early ! 
Now green 's thesod, and cauld 's the clay, 

That wrai)S my Highland Mary ! 

pale, pale now, those rosy lips 

I aft hae kissed sae fondly ! 
And closed for aye tlie .sparkling glance 

That dwelt on me sae kindly ! 
And mouldering now in silent dust 

That heart that lo'ed me dearly! 
But still within my bosom's core 

Shall live my Highland Mary. 



ROBERT BURNS. 



83 



TO MARY IN HEAVEN. 

TiioiT liiigi'iiiif; star, with lessening raj% 

Tiiiit lov'st to greet the early nioni, 
iVgain thou iisherest in the day 

iMv Mary from niy soul was torn. 
Mary! dear, dei.arted shade! 

Where is thy place of blissful rest? 
,Seest thou thy'lover lowly laid? 

Hear'st thou the groans tliat icnd his 
breast ? 

That sacred hour can I forget. 

Can I forget tlie hallowed grove. 
Where by the winding Ayr we met 

To live one day of parting love .' 
Eternity will not etface 

Those recoids dear of transports past ; 
Thy image at our last embrace! ! 

Ah ! little thought we 't was our last I 

Ayr, gurgling, kissed his pebbled shore, 

O'erhung with wild woods, thickening 
green ; 
The fragrant birch, and hawtlioru hoar, 

Twined amorous round llu^ raptured 
scene. 
The flowers sprang wanton to b(! jircssed, 

The birds sang love on every spray. 
Till too, too soon, the glowing west 

Proclaimed the speed of wingetl day. 

Still o'er these scenes my uiemory wakes. 

And fondly broods with nnser can^ ; 
Time but the impression deeper makes. 

As streams their channels deeper wear. 
My Mary ! dear, departed shade ! 

Where is thy place of blissful rest? 
Seest thou thy lover lowly laid :' 

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his 
breast? 



A VISION. 

As I stood Ity yon I'oofless tower, 

Where the wa'-llower scents the dewy 
air. 

Where the liowletHKiurns ill her ivy bower, 
And tells the niidniglit moon her care. 

The wiiuls were laid, tlie air was st ill, 
The stars they shot alang the sky; 

The fox was howling on the hill. 
And the distant-echoing glens reply. 

The stream, adown its hazelly path. 
Was rushing by the ruined wii's, 



Hasting to join tlie sweeping Nith, 
Wliase distant roaring swells and fa's. 

Thecaidd bhie nortli was stivamini; forth 
Herli-hts, wi' hissinu, .Tiie dm; 

Athort the lilt tiiey stall ami shift, 
Like fortune's favors, tint as win. 

V>y heedless chance I turned mine eyes, 
And by the moon-beam, shook, to see 

A stern and stalwart gliaist arise, 
Attired as minstrels wont to be. 

Had I a statue been o' stane, 
llisdarin look had daunted me : 

And on his bonnet graved was plain, 
The sacred jiosy — Libertie I 

And frae his Iiarp sic strains diil How, 
Might roused the siunibering dead to 
hear ; 

But O, it was a tab' of woe, 
As ever met a Briton's ear! 

He sang wi' joy his forinei- day, 

lie weeping wailed his latter times; 

Hut what he said it was nae i)lay, 
1 winiia ventur 't in my rlnmes. 



A BARD'S EPITAPH. 

Is there a whim-iiis]>iieil fool, 
Owre fast for thought, owre Inil for rule, 
Owre blate to seek, owre pinnd n. siiool. 

Let iiiin draw near, 
And owre this grassy heap siii^' dool. 
And diap a tear. 

Is there a bard of rusti.' s„iig, 
Wlio, noteless, steals tJie crowds among. 
That weekly this area throng, 

O, ])ass not by ! 
But with a frater-feeling strong,' 

Here'heaveasigh. 

Is there a man whose judgment clear 
Pan others teach the course' to sl.'cr, 
Yet runs himself lil'i''s mad eaivcr. 

Wild as the wave; 
Here pause, and, thro' the starting tear, 

Survey this grave. 

This poor inhabitant below 
Was (][uiek to leani and wise to know, 



84 



SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 



And keenly felt the friendly glow, 
And softer Hanie ; 

But thoughtless follies laid him low, 

And stained his name 

Eeader, attend, — whether thy soul 
Soars fancy's flights beyond the pole, 
Or darkling grubs this earthly hole, 

In low ])ursuit; 
Know prudent, cautious self-control 

Is wisdom's root. 



ELEGY ON CAPTAIN MATTHEW 
HENDERSON. 

He 's gane, he 's gane ! he 's frae us torn. 

The ae best fellow e'er was born ! 

Thee, Matthew, Nature's sel shall mourn 

By wood and wild, 
Where, haply. Pity strays foi-lorn, 

Frae man exiled. 

Ye hills, near neebors o' the starns. 
That proudly cock your cresting cairns ! 
Ye cliffs, the haunts of sailing yearns 

Where echo slumbers ! 
Come join, ye Nature's sturdiest bairns. 

My wailing numbers ! 

Mourn, ilka grove the cushat kens ! 
Ye haz'lly shaws and briery dens ! 
Ye burnies, wimplin down your glens, 

Wi' toddliii din. 
Or foaming strang, wi' hasty stens, 

Frae lin to lin. 

Mourn, little harebells o'er the lea ; 
Ye stately foxgloves fair to see ; 
Ye woodbines hanging bonnilie. 

In scented bow'rs; 
Ye roses on your thorny tree, 

The first o' flow'rs. 

At dawn, when every grassy blade 

Droops with a diamntnl at its head, 

At ev'n, when bcmis tln-ir iV;i,i;ranee shed, 

r til' rustling gale. 
Ye maukins whiddin thro' the glade. 

Come join my wail. 

Mourn, ye wee songsters o' the wood ; 
Ye grouse that crap the heather bud; 
Ye curlews calling thro' a clud ; 

Ye whistling plover; 
And mourn, ye whirring paitrick brood ; 

He 's gane forever I 



Mourn, sooty coots, and speckled teals ; 
Ye fisher herons, watching eels ; 
Ye duck and drake, wi' airy wheels 

Circling the lake ; 
Ye bitterns, till tlie quagmire reels, 

Rair for his sake. 

Mourn, clam'ring craiks at close o' daj', 
'Mang fields o' fiow'ring claver gay ; 
And when ye wing your annual way 

Frae our cauld shore, 
Tell thae far warlds, wha lies in clay, 

Wham we deplore. 

Ye howlets, frae your ivy bow'r. 
In some auld tree, or eldritch tow'r. 
What time the moon, wi' silent glow'r. 

Sets up her hoin, 
Wail thro' the dreary midtiight hour 

Till waukrife morn. 

rivers, forests, hills, and plains ! 
Oft have ye heard my canty strains ; 
But now, what else for me remains 

But tales of woe ? 
And frae my een the drapping rains 

Maun ever flow. 

Mourn, Spring, thou darling of the year ! 
Ilk cowslip cup shall kep a tear; 
Thou, Sunnner, while each corny spear 

Shoots up its head. 
Thy gay, green, flow'ry tresses shear 

For him that 's dead ! 

Thou, Autumn, wi' thy yellow hair, 
In grief thy sallow mantle tear! 
Thou, Winter, hurling thro' the air 

The roaring blast, 
Wide o'er the naked world declare 

The worth we 've lost ! 

Mourn him, thou Sun , great source of light ; 
Mourn, Empress of the silent night ! 
And you, ye twinkling starnies bright. 

My Matthew mourn ! 
For through your orbs he's ta'en his flight, 

Ne'er to return. 

Henderson ; the man ! the brother ! 
And art thou gone, and gone forever ! 
And hast thou crost that unknown river, 

Life's dreary bound ! 
Like thee, where shall I find another. 

The world around ? 

Go to your sculptured tombs, ye Great, 
In a' the tinsel trash o' state ! 




"I GANG LIKE A GHAIST, AND I CARENA TO SPIN." — Page 85. 



LADY ANNE BAENAKD. — WILLIAM BLAKE. 



85 



Bat by tliy honest turf I '11 wait, 

Thou man of worth ! 

And weep the ae best feUow's fate 
E'er lay in earth. 



LADY ANNE BAENARD. 
[1705- 1825.] 

AULD ROBIN GRAY. 

When the sheep are in the fauld, and 

the kye come hame. 
And a' the weary warld to sleep are gane ; 
The waes o' my heart fa' in showers frae 

my ee, 
While my gudeman lies sound by me. 

Young Jamie lo'ed me weel, and socht 

me for his bride ; 
But saving a croun, he had naething 

else beside ; 
To mak that croun a pund, my Jamie 

gaed to sea ; 
And the croun and the pund they were 

baith for me. 

He hadna been gane a twelvemonth and 

a day, 
When my father brak his arm, and the 

cow was stown awa : 
My mither she fell sick, — my Jamie was 

at sea, 
And auld Robin Gray cam' a-courtin' me. 

My father couldna work, and my mother 

couldna spin ; 
I toiled day and nicht, but their bread I 

couldna win ; 
Auld Rob maintained them baith, and, 

wi' tears in his ee', 
Said, "Jeannie, for their sakes, will ye 

na marry me?" 

My heart it said nay, for I looked for 

Jamie back ; 
But the wind it blew high, and the ship 

it was a wrack ; 
The ship it was a wrack — why didna 

Jamie dee? 
Or why do I live to say, Wae 's me ? 

My father urged me sair : my mither didna 

speak ; 
But she lookit in my face till my heart 

was like to break ; 



They gied him my hand, though ray 

heart was in the sea ; 
And auld Robin Gray was gudeman to 

me. 

I hadna been a wife a week but only four, 
When, mournfu'asi saton thestaneatmy 

door, 
I saw my Jamie's wraith, for I couldna 

think it he, 
Till he said, "I 'm come home, love, to 

marry thee." 

0, sair did we greet, and muckle say of a' ! 
I gie'd him but ae kiss, and bade hira 

gang awa' : 
I wish 1 were dead ! but I 'm no like to 

dee; 
And why do I live to cry, Wae 's me ? 

I gang like a ghaist, and I carena to spin ; 
I daurna think on Jamie, for that wad 

be a sin ; 
But I '11 do my best a gude wife to be, 
For auld Robin Gray, he is kind to me. 



WILLIAM BLAKE. 

[1737-1827.] 

THE TIGER. 

Tiger ! Tiger ! burning bright, 
In the forests of the night ; 
Wliat immortal hand or eye 
Could frame thy fearful symmetry ? 

In what distant deeps or skies 
Burned the fire of thine eyes ? 
On what wings dare he asy)ire ? 
What the hand dare seize the fire ? 

And what shoulder, and what art, 
Could twist the sinews of thine heart ? 
And when thy heart began to beat. 
What dread hand ? and what dread feet ? 

What the hammer, what the chain ? 
In what furnace was thy brain ? 
What the anvil ? what dread gi'asp 
Dare its deadly terrors clasp ? 

When the stars threw down their spears, 
And watered heaven with their tears, 



86 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 


Did lie smile liis work to see ? 


I hear below the water roar. 


Did He, who made tlie Lamb, make tliee ? 


The mill wi' chicking din, 




And Lucky scolding frae the door. 


Tiger ! Tiger ! burning bright, 


To ca' the bairnies in. 


In the forests of the night, 


0, no ! sad and tlow, 


AVhat immortal liand or eye 


These are nae sounds for me ; 


Dare frame thy fearful symmetry ? 


The shadow of our trysting bu.sh 




It creeps sae drearily. 


TO THE MUSES. 


I coft yestreen, frae chapman Tarn, 
A snood 0' boiinie blue, 


"Whethf.k on Ida's shady brow 


And promised, wlien our trysting cam'. 


Or in the chambers of the East, 


To tie it round her brow.' 


The chambei-s of the sun, which now 


0, no ! sad and slow, 


From ancient melodies have ceased ; 


The mark it winna' pass ; 




The shadow 0' that dreary bush 


"Whether in Heaven ye wander fair, 


Is tethered on the grass. 


Or the green corners of the earth. 




Or the blue regions of the air. 


now I see her on the way ! 


Where the melodious winds have birth. 


She 's past the witch's knowe ; 




She 's climbing up tlie brownies brae ; 


Whether on crystal rocks ye rove. 


;My lieart is in a lowe, 


Beneath the bosom of the sea. 


0, no ! 't is not so. 


Wandering in many a coral grove. 


'T is glamrie I hae seen ; 


Fair Nine, forsaking Poetry, 


The shadow 0' that hawthorn bush 




Will move nae mair till e'en. 


How have you left the ancient lore 
That bai'ds of old engaged in you ! 




My book 0' grace I '11 try to read, 


The languid strings do scarcely move, 


"Though conned wi' little skill ; 


The sound is forced, the notes are few. 


When Collie barks 1 '11 raise mv head, 




And find her on the hill. 




0, no ! sad and .slow, 


— • — 


The time will ne'er be gane : 




The shadow 0' our trysting bush 


JOAXXA BAILLIE. 


Is fixed like ony stane. 


[.762-1S31.] 


— ^ 


THE GOWAN GLrTTERS ON THE 




SWARD. 


LADY CArxOLIXE XAIRN. 


The gowan glittere on the sward, 


[1766- jS4S.] 


The lav'rock 's in the sky, 




And Collie on my plaid keeps ward. 


THE LAND 0' THE LEAL. 


And time is passing by. 
0, no I sacl and slow. 




I 'm Avearin' awa'. Jean, 


And lengthened on tlie ground ; 


Like snaw in a thaw, Jean, 


The shadow of our trysting bush 


I 'm wearin' awa' 


It wears so slowly round. 


To the Land 0' the Leal. 




There 's nae sorrow there, Jean, 


My sheep-bells tinkle fi-ae the west. 


There's neither cauld nor care, Jean, 


"ilv lambs are bleating near ; 


The day is ever fair 


But still tlie sound that I love best, 


In tlie Land 0' the Leal. 


Alack ! I canna hear. 




0, no ! sad and slow, 


You 've been leal and true, Jean, 


The shadow lingers still ; 


Your task is ended noo, Jean, 


And like a lanely gliaist I stand, 


And 1 '11 welcome vou 


And croon upon the hill. 


To the Land 0' the Leal. 



ROBERT BLOOMFIELD. 



87 



Then dry tli.at tearfii' ee, Jean ; 
My soul laiigs to be free, Jean ; 
And angels wait on me 
To the Land o' the Leal. 

Our bonnie bairn 's there, Jean, 
She was baith gude and fair, Jean, 
And we grudgeil her sair 

To the Land o' the Leal ! 
But sorrow 's scdf wears past, Jean, 
And joy 's a coinin' fast, Jean, 
The joy that 's aye to last, 

In the Land o' the Leal. 

A' our friends are gane, Jean ; 
We 've lang been left alane, Jean ; 
But we '11 a' meet again 

In the Land o' the Leal. 
Now fare ye weel, my ain Jean ! 
This world's care is vain, Jean ! 
We '11 meet, and aye be fain 

In the Land o' tlie Leal. 



IlOBEllT BLOOMFIELD. 
[1766-1823.] 

THE SOLDIER'S RETURN. 

How sweet it was to breathe that cooler 

air. 
And take possession of my father's chair ! 
Beneath my elbow, on the solid frame. 
Appeared the rough initials of my name, 
Cut forty years before ! The same old 

clock 
Struck the same bell, and gave my heart 

a shock 
I never can forget. A short breeze 

sprung, 
And while a sigh was trembling on my 

tongue, 
Caught the old dangling almanacs be- 
hind, 
And up they flew like banners in the 

wind ; 
Then gently, singly, down, down, down 

tliey went, 
And told of twenty years that I had spent 
Far from my native land. That instant 

came 
A robin on the threshold; though so 

tame, 



At first he looked distmstful, almost 

shy. 
And cast on me his coal-black steadfast 

eye, 
And seemed to say, — past friendship to 

renew, — 
"Ah ha ! old worn-out soldier, is it you ?" 
While tlius I mused, still gazing, gazing 

still. 
On beds of moss spread on the window- 
sill, 
I deemed no moss my eyes had ever seen 
Had been so lovely, brilliant, fresh, and 

green, 
And guessed some infant hand had jilaced 

it there. 
And prized its hue, so exquisite, so rare. 
Feelings on feelings mingling, doubling 

rose; 
My heart felt everything but calm repose ; 
I could not reckon minutes, hours, nor 

years. 
But rose at once, andbursted into tears; 
Then, like a fool, confused, sat down 

again. 
And thoudit upon the past with shame 

and pain ; 
I raved at war and all its horrid cost, 
And glory's quagn^iire, where the brave 

are lost. 
On carnage, fire, and plunder long I 

mused, 
And cursed the murdering weapons I had 

used. 
Two shadows then I saw, two voices 

heard, 
One bespoke age, and one a child's ap- 
peared. 
In stepjied my father with convulsive 

start, 
And in an instant clasped me to his heart. 
Close by him stood a little blue-eyed 

maid ; 
And stooping to the child, the old man 

said, 
" Come hither, Nancy, kiss me once 

again ; 
This is your uncle Charles, come home 

from Spain." 
The child appi'oached, and with her 

fingers light 
Stroked my old eyes, almost deprived of 

sight. 
But whv thus spin my tale, — thus tedious 

fee? 
Happy old soldier ! what 's the world to 

me? 



88 



SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 



JANE ELLIOTT. 



[17S1-1849.] 

LAMENT FOR FLODDEN. 

I 'VE heard them lilting at our ewe-milk- 
ing, 
Lasses a' lilting before dawn o' day ; 
But now they are moaning on ilka green 
loaning — 
The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede 
away. 

At bughts, in the morning, nae blythe 
lads are scorning, 
Lasses are lonely and dowie and wae ; 
Nae daffin', nae gabbin', but sighing and 
sabbing, 
Ilk ane lifts her leglin and hies her 
away. 

In har'st, at the shearing, nae youths 
now are jeering, 
Bandsters are lyai-t, and runkled, and 
gray ; 
At fair or at preaching, nae wooing, nae 
fleeching — 
The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede 
away. 

At e'en, in the gloaming, nae younkers 
are roaming 
'Bout stacks wi' the lasses at bogle to 
play; 
But ilk ane sits drearie, lamenting her 
dearie — 
The Flowers of the Forest are weded 
away. 

Dool and wae for the order, sent our lads 
to the Border ! 
The English, for ance, by guile wan 
the day ; 
The Flowers of the Forest, that fought 
aye the foremost, 
The ]irime of our land, are cauld in 
the cky. 

"We '11 hear nae mair lilting at the ewe- 
milking ; 
"Women and bairns are heartless and 
wae ; 
Sighing and moaning on ilka green loan- 
ing— 
The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede 
away. 



ROBERT TANNAHILL. 

[1774- iSio.] 

THE MIDGES DANCE ABOON THE 
BURN. 

The midges dance aboon the burn ; 

The dews begin to fii' ; 
The paitricks down the rushy holm 

Set up their e'ening ca'. 
Now loud and clear the blackbird's sang 

Rings through the briery shaw, 
While flitting gay the swallows play 

Around the castle wa'. 

Beneath the golden gloamin' sky 

The mavis mends her lay ; 
The redbreast pours his sweetest strains, 

To charm the ling' ring day ; 
While weary yaldrins seem to wail 

Their little nestlings torn. 
The merry wren, frae den to den, 

Gaes jinking through the thorn. 

The roses fauld their silken leaves. 

The foxglove shuts its bell ; 
The honeysuckle and the birk 

Spread fragrance through the dell. 
Let others crowd the giddy court 

Of mirth and revelry. 
The simple joys that Nature yields 

Are dearer far to me. 



THE BRAES O' BALQUHITHER. 

Let us go, lassie, go. 

To the braes o' Balquhither, 
Where the blae-berries grow 

'Mang the bonnie Highland heather; 
Where the deer and the roe, 

Lightly bounding together, 
Sport the lang summer day 

On the braes o' Balquhither. 

I will twine thee a bower 

By the clear siller fountain. 
And I '11 cover it o'er 

Wi' the flowers of the mountain ; 
I will range through the wilds. 

And the deep glens sae drearie, 
And return wi' the spoils 

To the bower o' my dearie. 

When the rude wintry win' 
Idly raves round our dwelling, 



WILLIAM E. SPENCER. — JOSEPH BLANCO WHITE. 



89 



And the roar of the linn 

On the night breeze is swelling, 
So merrily we '11 sing, 

As the storm rattles o'er us, 
Till the dear shieling ring 

Wi' the light lilting chorus. 

Now the summer 's in prime 

Wi' the flowers richly blooming. 
And the wild mountain thyme 

A' the moorlands perfuming; 
To our dear native scenes 

Let us journey together. 
Where glad innocence reigns 

'Mang the braes o' Balquliither. 



AVILLIAM R. SPENCER. 

[1770-1S34.] 

TO THE LADY ANNE HAMILTON. 

Too late I stayed, forgive the crime. 

Unheeded flew the hours ; 
How noiseless falls the foot of Time 

That only treads on flowers ! 

What eye with clear account remarks 

The ebbing of hi.s glass, 
When all its sands are diamond sparks 

That dazzle as thej'' pass ! 

Ah ! who to sober measurement 
Time's happy swiftness brings, 

When birds of Paradise have lent 
Their plumage to its wings ? 



JAMES GLASSFORD. 

[1772- ■] 

THE DEAD WHO HAVE DIED IN THE 
LORD. 

Go, call for the mourners, and raise the 

lament. 
Let the tresses be torn, and the garments 

be rent ; 
But weep not for him who is gone to 

his rest. 
Nor mourn for the ransomed, nor wail 

for the blest. 



The sun is not set, but is risen on high, 

Nor long in corruption his body shall lie ; 

Then let not the tide of thy griefs over- 
flow. 

Nor the mutic of heaven be discord below ; 

Rather loud be the song, and triumphant 
the chord. 

Let us joy for tlie dead who have died in 
the Lord. 

Go, call for the mourners, and raise the 

lament, 
Let the tresses be torn, and the garments 

be rent; 
But give to the living thy passion of tears. 
Who walk in this valley of sadness and 

fears ; 
Who are pressed by the combat, in dark- 
ness are lost, 
By the tempest are beat, on the billows 

are tossed : 
0, weep not for those m-1io sliall sorrow 

no more, 
Whose warfare is ended, whose trial is 

o'er; 
Let the song be exalted, triumphant the 

chord. 
And rejoice" for the dead who have died 

in the Lord. 



JOSEPH BLANCO WHITE. 

[1775-1841.] 

NIGHT AND DEATH. 

Mysterious night! when our first par- 
ent knew 
Thee from report Divine, and heaid thy 

name. 
Did he not trembl e for this lovely frame, 
This glorious canopy of light and blue? 
Yet, 'neath a curtain of translucent dew, 
Bathed in the rays of tlie great setting 

flame, 
Hesperus, with the host of heaven, came, 
And lo ! creation widened in man's view. 
Who could have thought such darkness 
lay concealed 
Within thy beams, sun ! or who 
could find. 
Whilst fly, and leaf, and insect stood 
revealed. 
That to such countless orbs thou 
mad'st us blind 1 



90 



SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 



"Why do we, then, shun death with anx- 
ious strife? 

If light can thus deceive, wherefore not 
life? 



JOHN LEYDEN. 



ODE TO AN INDIAN GOLD COIN. 

WRITTEN IN CHERICAL, MALABAR. 

Slave of the dark and dirty mine ! 

What vanity has brought thee here ? 
How can I love to see thee shine 

So briglit, whom I have bought so 
dear? — 

The tent-ropes flapping lone I hear, 
For twilight converse, arm in arm ; 

The jackal's shriek bursts on mine ear 
Whom mirth and music wont to charm. 

By Cherical's dark wandering streams, 
Where cane-tufts shadow all the wild, 

Sweet visions haunt my waking dreams 
Of Teviot loved while still a child, 
Of castled rocks stupendous piled 

By Esk or Eden's classic wave, 

Where loves of youth and friejidship 
smiled, 

Uncursed by thee, vile yellow slave ! 

Fade, day-dreams sweet, from memory 
fade! — 

The perished bliss of youth's first prime. 
That once so bright on fancy played. 

Revives no more in after time. 

Far from my .sacred natal clime, 
I haste to an untimely grave ; 

The daring thoughts that soared sub- 
lime 
Are sunk in ocean's southern wave. 

Slave of the mine ! thy yellow light 

Gleams baleful as the tomb-fire drear. 
A gentle vision comes by night 

My lonely widowed heart to cheer; 

Her eyes are dim with many a tear. 
That once were guiding stars to mine : 

Her fond heart throbs with many a 
fear ! 
I cannot bear to see thee .shine. 

For thee, for thee, vile yellow slave, 
I left a heart that loved me true 1 



I crossed the tedious ocean -wave. 
To roam in climes unkind and new. 
The cold wind of the stranger l)lew 

Chill on my withered heart : tlie grave 
Dark and untimely met my view, — 

And all for thee, vile yellow slave ! 

Ha! comest thou now so late to mock 

A wanderer's banished heart forlorn. 
Now that his frame the lightning shock 

Of sun-rays tipt with death has borne? 

From love, from fiiendship, country, 
torn, 
To memory's fond regrets the pre)', 

Vile slave, tliy yidlow dross I scorn ! 
Go mi.x; thee with thy kindred clay ! 



SIR HUMrHRY DAVY. 



[1778-1829-] 



WRITTEN AFTER RECOVERY FEOM 
A DANGEROUS ILLNESS. 



Lo ! o'er the earth the kindling spirits 
]iour 
The flames of life that bounteous na- 
ture gives ; 
The limpid dew becomes the rosy flower. 
The insensate dust awakes, and moves, 
and lives. 

All speaks of change: the renovated 
forms 
Of long-forgotten things arise again ; 
The light of suns, the breath of angry 
storms, 
The everlasting motions of the main, • — 

These are but engines of the Eternal 
will, 
The One Intelligence, whose jiotent 
sway 
Has ever acted, and is acting still. 
Whilst stars, and worlds, and systems 
all obey ; 

Without whose power, the whole of mor- 
tal things 
Were dull, inert, an unharmonious 
band. 
Silent as are the harp's untuned strings 
Without the touches of the poet's 
hand. 



GEORGE CROLY. 



91 



A sacred spai'k created by His breath, 
The immortal mind of man His image 
bears ; 
A spirit living 'midst the forms of death, 
Oppressed but not subdued by mortal 
cares ; 

A germ, preparing in tlie winter's frost 
To rise, and bud, and blossom in the 
spring ; 

An unfledged eagle by the tempest tossed, 
Unconscious of his future strength of 



The child of trial, to mortality 

And all its changeful influences given ; 
On the green earth decreed to move and 
die, 
And yet by such a fate prepared for 
heaven. 

Soon as it breathes, to feel the mother's 
form 
Of orbed beauty through its organs 
thrill, 
To press the limbs of life with rapture 
warm. 
And drink instinctive of a living rill ; 

To view the skies with morning radiance 
bi'ight, 
Majestic mingling with the ocean blue, 
Or bounded by green hills, or mountains 
white, 
Or peopled plains of rich and varied 
hue; 

The nobler charms astonished to behold. 
Of living loveliness, — to see it move, 

Cast in expression's rich and varied 
mould, 
Awakeningsympathy, compelling love; 

The heavenly balm of nnitual hope to 
taste. 
Soother of life, affliction's bliss to 
share ; 
Sweet as the stream amidst the desert 
waste. 
As the first blush of arctic daylight 
fair ; 

To mingle with its kindred, to descry 
The path of power ; in public life to 
shine ; 

To gain the voice of popularity. 

The idol of to-day, the man divine ; I 



To govern others by an influence strong 
As that high law which moves the 
murmuring main. 
Raising and carrying all its waves along, 
Beneath the full-orbed moon's merid- 
ian reign ; 

To scan how transient is the breath of 
praise, 
A winter's zephyr trembling on the 
snow. 
Chilled as it moves ; or, as the northern 
rays. 
First fading in the centre, whence they 
flow. 

To live in forests mingled with the whole 
Of natural forms, whose generations 
rise. 
In lovely change, in happy order roll. 
On land, in ocean, in the glittering 
skies ; 

Their harmon}' to trace ; the Eternal cause 
To know in love, in reverence to adore ; 

To bend beneath the inevitable laws. 
Sinking in death, its human strength 
no more ! 

Then, as awakening from a dream of 
pain, 
With joy its mortal feelings to re- 
sign ; 
Yet all its living essence to retain. 
The undying energy of strength divine ! 

To quit the burdens of its earthly days. 
To give to nature all her borrowed 
powers, — 
Ethereal fire to feed the solar rays, 
Ethei-eal dew to glad the earth with 
showers. 



GEORGE CROLY. 

[1780-1860.] 

CUPID GROWN CAREFUL. 

Til EKE was once a gentle time 
When the world was in its prime ; 
And every day was holiday, 
And every month was lovely May. 
Cnpid tlien had but to go 
With his purple wings and bow ; 



92 



SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 



Aiul in blossonipd vnlo niul grovo 
Every shephoid knelt to love. 

Tlien a rosv. .limplc.l eluvk, 
Aii.l a UUw eve, foiul ami meek ; 
Ami a linj^lei-wreatheii blow. 
Like liyaeintlis on a beil ofsnow: 
And a low voice, silver sweet, 
From a lip without deceit; 
(."•nly those the hearts conld move 
Of" the simple swains to love. 

l^ut that time is jjone and past, 
Can tln^ summer always last .' 
And tlie swains are wiser ii;rown. 
Ami the heart is turned to stone, 
And tlie maiden's rose may wither; 
Cupid 's lletl, no man knows whithei 
Uut another (,'upid 's come, 
"With a brow ot'eare and gloom: 
Fixed upon the earthlv mould, 
Tiiinking of tiie sullen gohl ; 
In liis hand the bow no more. 
At his back the househidd store, 
That the bridal gold must buy : 
Useless now the smile and sigh : 
But he wears the jiinion still. 
Flying at the sight of ill. 

0, for the old trno-love time, 
When the world was in its prime ! 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 

[17S5-1S06.] 

TO THE HERB ROSEMARY. 

SWEF.T-si^ENTF, n flower ! who 'rt wont to 
bloom 
^n January's front severe, 
And o"er the wintry desert drear 

To waft thy waste perfume ! 
Come, thoushalt form my nosegay now. 
And 1 will bind thee lonnd my brow ; 

And as 1 twine the mournful wreath, 
I '11 weave a melancholy song : 
And sweet the strain shall be and long. 

The melody of death. 

Com(>, funeral llowcr 1 who lov'st to dwell 
"With the pale eor)>se in lonely tomb, 
And throw across the desert gloom 
A sweet decaying smell. 



Come, press my lips, and lie with 

me 
r.eneath tlu' lowly alder-tree. 

And we will sleep a pleasant sleep, 
And not a care shall ilare intrude, 
To break the marble solitude 

So peaceful and so deep. 



And hark ! the wind-god, as lie Hies, 
!Moans hollow in the forest trees, 
And sailing on the gusty breeze. 

Mysterious music dies. 
Sweet llowcr! that re(piiem wild is 

mine, 
It warns me to the lon.'lv slirine, 
Thecohl tnrf altar of the dead; 
]\lv grave shall be in vou lone spot, 
"Whereas 1 lie, by all" forgot, 

A dving fragrance thou wilt o'er my 
ashes shed. 



TO AN EARLY I^RIMROSE. 

M 11.11 ofTspring of a dark and sullen 
sire ! 

Whose modest form, so delicately fine. 
Was nnrsed in whirling storms. 
Ami cradled in the winds. 



Thee, when young Spring first questioned 

Winter's sway. 
And dared the sturdy blusterer to the 
light, 
Thee on this bank he threw 
To mark his victory. 



In this low vale, the promise of the 

year. 
Serene, thou oi>enest to the nipping gale, 

Unnoticed and alone. 

Thy tender eleganee. 



So virtue blooms, brought forth amid 

the storms 
Of chill adversity ; in some lone walk 

Of life she rears her head, 

Obscure and unobserved ; 

While everv bleaching breeze that on her 

blows 
Chast(Mis her spotless purity of breast, 

And hardens her to bear 

Serene the ills of life. 



HERBERT KNOWLES. 
THE STAR OF BETHLEHEM. 



93 



When marshalh^d on the niglitly plain, 
The glittering liost bestud the sky ; 

One star alone, of all the train. 

Can fix the sinner's wandering eye. 

Hark ! hark ! to God tlie chorus breaks, 
From every host, from every gem : 

But one alone the Saviour speaks, 
It is the Star of Bethlehem. 

Onc(! on the raging seas I rode, 

The storm was loud, the night was 
dark. 
The ocean yawned, and rudely blowed 
The wind that tossed my foundering 
bark. 

Deep horror then my vitals froze, 

Death-struck, I ceased the tide to 
stem ; 

AVhen suddenly a star arose, — 
It was the Star of Bethlehem. 



It was my guide, my light, my all, 
It bade my dark forebodings cease; 

And through the storm and dangers' 
thrall, 
It led me to the port of peace. 

Now safely moored, my perils o'er, 
I '11 sing, first in night's diadem. 

Forever and forevermore 

The Star !— the Star of Bethlehem ! 



HERBERT KNOWLES. 

[1798- 1827.] 

LINES WRITTEN IN RICHMOND 
CHURCHYARD, YORKSHIRE. 

" It is good for us to be here ; if thou wilt, 
let us make here three talteriiacles ; one for 
thee, and one for Moses, and one for Elias." — 
Matt. xvii. 4. 

Mkthinks it is good to be here ; 
If thou wilt, let us build — but for 
whom ? 
Nor Elias nor Moses appear, 



lint the shadows of eve that encompass 

the gloom. 
The abode of the dead and the place of 

the tomb. 

Shall we ])uild to Ambition ? 0, no ! 
Affrighted, he shriiiketh away ; 

For, see ! they would pin him be- 
low. 
In a small narrow cave, and, begirt with 

cold clay, 
To the meanest of reptiles a peer and a 
prey. 

To Beauty? ah, no! — she forgets 
The charms which she wielded before — 
Nor knows the foul worm that he 
frets 
The skin which but yesterday fools could 

adore, 
For the smoothness it held, or the tint 
which it wore. 

Shall we build to the puri)le of 
Pride — 
The trapjungs which dizen the proud? 

Alas ! they aw. all laid asiih^ ; 
And here 's neither dress nor adornment 

allowed. 
But the long winding-sheet and the fringe 
of the shroud. 

To Riches ? alas ! 't is in vain ; 
Who hid, in their turn have been hid : 
The treasures are squandered again ; 
And here in the grave are all metals for- 
bid. 
But the fiiiscl that shines on the dark 
colfin-lid. 

To the pleasures which Mirth can 
afford, — 
The revel, the laugh, and the jeer? 

Ah ! here is a plentiful boai'd ! 
But the guests are all mute as their piti- 
ful cheer, 
And none but the worm is a reveller 
here. 

Shall we build to Affection and 
Love? 
Ah, no ! they have withered and died, 

Or fled with the spirit above ; 
Friends, brothers, and sisters are laid side 

by side, 
Yet none have saluted, and none have 
replied. 



94 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 

Unto Sorrow ? — Tlie dead cannot 



grieve ; 

Not a sob, not a sigh meets mine ear, 
Whicli eomijassion itself could re- 
lieve ! 

Ah ! sweetly they slumber, nor hope, love, 
nor fear, — 

Peace, peace is the watchword, the only 
one here ! 

Unto Death, to whom monarchs must 
bow? 
Ah, no ! for his empire is known. 
And here there are trophies enow ! 



Beneath — the cold dead, and around — 

the dark stone. 
Are the signs of a sceptre that none may 

disown ! 

The first tabernacle to Hope we will 

build. 

And look for the sleepers arouml us to rise ; 

The secDud to Faith, which insures it 

fuUiiled ; 

And the tliird to the Lamb of the great 

saciilice, 
Who bequeathed us them both when he 
rose to the skies. 



FROM WORDSWORTH TO LONGFELLOW. 



From Wordsworth to Longfellow. 



WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 

[1770-1850.] 

INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY 

FROM Recollections of Early Childhood. 

There avrs a time -when meadow, grove, 

and stream, 
The earth, and every common sight, 
To nie did seem 
Apparelled in cehjstial light. 
The glory and the freshness of a dream. 
It is not now as it hath been of yore ; — 
Turn wheresoe'er I may, 
By night or day, 
The things which I have seen I now can 
see no more. 

The rainbow comes and goes, 
And lovely is the rose ; 
The moon doth with delight 
Look round her when the heavens are 
bare ; 
"Waters on a starry night 
Are beautiful and fair ; 
The sun.shine is a glorious birth : 
But yet I know, where'er I go, 
That there hath passed away a glory from 
the earth. 

Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous 
song, 
And while the young lambs bound 
As to the tabor's sound. 
To me alone there came a thought of 

grief; 
A timely utterance gave that thought 
relief, 
And I again am strong. 



The cataracts blow their trumpets from 

the steep, — 
No more shall grief of mine the season 

wrong : 
I hear the echoes through the mountains 

throng, 
The winds come to me from the fields of 
sleep. 
And all the earth is gay ; 
Land and sea 
Give themselves up to jollity, 
And with the heart of May 
Doth every beast keep holiday; — 
Thou child of J03-, 
Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, 
thou happy shepherd boy ! 

Ye blessed creatures, I have heard the 
call 
Ye to each other make ; I see 
The heavens laugh with you in your 
jubilee ; 
My heart is at your festival, 
My head hath its coronal. 
The fulness of your bliss, I feel — I feel 
it all. 

evil day ! if I were sullen 
While Earth herself is adorning, 

This sweet May morning. 
And the children are culling. 

On every side. 
In a thousand valleys far and wide, 
Fresh flowers ; while the sun shines 
warm, 
And the babe leaps up on his mother's 
arm : — 

1 hear, I hear, with joy I hear ! . 
— But there 's a tree, of many one, 

A single field which 1 have looked 

upon,— 
Both of them speak of something that is 



98 



SONGS OF THREE CENTUEIES. 



Tlie pansy at my feet 
Doth the same tale repeat. 

Whither is tied the visionary gleam ? 

Where is it now, the glory and the 
dream ? 

Our birth is but a sleep and a forget- 
ting : 
The soul that rises with us, our life's 
star, 
Hatli had elsewhere its setting. 

And Cometh from afar ; 
Not in entire forgetfulness, 
And not in utter nakedness. 
But trailing clouds of glory, do we come 

From God, who is our home : 
Heaven lies about us in our infancy ! 
Shades of the prison-house begin to close 

Upon the growing boy ; 
But he beholds the light, and whence it 
flows, — 
He sees it in his joy. 
The youth who daily farther from the 
east 
Must travel, still is Nature's priest. 
And by the vision splendid 
Is on his way attended ; 
At length the man perceives it die 

away. 
And fade into the light of common 
day. 

Earth fills lier lap with pleasures of her 

own ; 
Yearnings she hath in her own natural 

kind, 
And even with something of a mother's 
mind. 
And no unworthy aim. 
The homely nurse doth all she can 
To make her foster-child, her inmate man. 

Forget the glories he hath known, 
And that imperial palace whence he came. 

Behold the child among his new-born 

blisses, 
A six years' darling of a pygmy size ! 
See where mid work of his own hand he 

lies. 
Fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses. 
With light upon him from his father's 

eyes ! 
See, at his feet, some little plan or chart. 
Some fragment from his dream of human 

life. 
Shaped by himself with newly learned 

art, — 



A wedding or a festival, 

A mourning or a funeral, — 
And this hath now his heart, 

And unto this he frames his song: 
Then will he fit his tongue 
To dialogues of business, love, or strife; 

But it will not be long 

Ere this be thrown aside. 

And with new joy and pride 
The little actor cons another part; 
Filling from time to time his humorous 

stage 
With all the persons, down to palsied age, 
riiat Life brings with her in her equipage ; 

As if his whole vocation 

Were endless imitation. 

Thou, whose exterior semhlancedoth belie 

Thy soul's immensity ; 
Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keep 
Tiiy heritage ; thou eye among the blind. 
That, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal 

deep. 
Haunted forever by the eternal mind, — 
Mighty prophet ! Seer blest ! 
On whom those truths do rest 
Which we are toiling all our lives to find, 
1 n darkness lost, the darkness of the grave ; 
Thou, over whom thy immortality 
Broods like the day, a master o'er a slave, 
\ presence which is not to be put by ; 
Thou little child, yet glorious in theiniglit 
Of heaven-born freedom, on thy being's 

height, 
Why with .such earnest pains dost thou 

provoke 
The years to bring the inevitable yoke. 
Thus blindly with thy blessedness at 

strife ? 
Full soon thv soul shall have her earthly 

freight, 
And custom lie upon thee with a weight 
Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life ! 

O joy ! that in our embers 
Is something that doth live ; 
That Nature yet remembers 
What was so fugitive ! 
The thought of our past years in me doth 

breed 
Perpetual benediction : not indeed 
For that which is most worthy to be 

blest ; 
Delight and lib(>rtv, the simple creed 
Of ciiildliood, whether busy or at rest. 
With new-tlcdged hope still fluttering in 
his breast: — 



WILLIAM WOEUSWOETH. 



99 



Not for these I raise 
The song of thanks and praise ; 
But for those obstinate questionings 
Of sense and outward things, 
Fallings from us, vanishings, 
Blank misgivings of a creature 
Moving about in worlds not realized, 
High instincts before which our mortal 

nature 
Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised : 
But for those first affections, 
Those shadowy recollections, 
Which, be they what thcj^ may. 
Are yet the fountain light of all our day. 
Are yet a master light of all our seeing ; 
Uphold us, cherish, and have power 
to make 
Our noisy years seemmomentsin the being 
Of the eternal silence : truths that wake. 

To j)erish never ; 
Which neither listlessness, nor mad en- 
deavor, 

Nor man nor boy, 
Nor all that is at enmity with joy. 
Can uttei'ly abolish or destroy ! 

Hence, in a season of calm weather, 
Though inland far we be. 
Our souls have sight of that immortal sea 
Which brought us hither; 
Can in a moment travel thither. 
And see the children sport upon the shore. 
And hear the mighty waters rolling ever- 



Then, sing, j'e birds, sing, sing a joyous 
songi 
And let the young lambs bound 
As to the tabor's sound ! 
We, in thought, will join your throng. 
Ye that pipe and ye that play. 
Ye that through your hearts to-day 
Feel the gladness of the May ! 
What though the radiance which was 

once so bright 
Be now forever taken from my sight ; 

Though nothingcanbringbackthehour 
Of splendor in the grass, of glory in the 
flower, — 
We will grieve not, rather find 
Strength in what remains behind ; 
In the primal sympathy 
Which, having been, must ever be ; 
In the soothing thoughts that spring 
Out of human suffering; 
In the faith that looks through death, 
In years that bring the philosophic 
mind. 



Afld ye fountains, meadows, hills, and 

groves. 
Forebode not any severing of our loves ! 
Yet in my heart of hearts 1 feel your might ; 
1 only have relinquished one delight, 
To live beneath your more habitual sway. 
I love the brooks which down their 

channels fret. 
Even more than when I tripped lightly 

as they ; 
The innocent brightness of a new-born day 

Is lovely yet ; 
The clouds that gather round the setting 

sun 
Do take a sober coloring from an eye 
That hath kept watch o'er man's mor- 
tality ; 
Another race hath been, and other palms 

are won. 
Thanks to the human heart by which we 

live. 
Thanks to its tenderness, its joys and 

fears. 
To me the meanest flower that blows can 

give 
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for 

tears. 



THE DAFFODILS. 

I WANnERED lonely as a cloud 

That floats on high o'er vales and hills. 

When all at once 1 saw a crowd, 

A host of golden daffodils. 

Beside the lake, beneath the trees. 

Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. 

Continuous as the stars that shine 
And twinkle on the Milky Way, 
They stretched in never-ending line 
Along the margin of a bay : 
Ten thousand saAv I at a glance. 
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. 

The waves beside them danced, but they 

Outdid the sparkling waves in glee: 

A poet could not but be gay 

In such a jocund company! 

I gazed — and gazed — but little thought 

What wealth the show to me had brouglit ; 

For oft, when on my couch I lie 
In vacant or in jiensive mood. 
They flash upon that inward eye 
Which is the bliss of solitude : 
And then my heart with jileasure fills ; 
And dances with the daff'odils. 



100 



SONGS OF THREE CENTUEIES, 



TO THE CUCKOO. 

BLITHE new-poiner ! I have heard, 

1 hear thee, ami rejoice : 

cuckoo ! shall I call thee bird, 
Or but a wandering voice ? 

While I am lying on the grass 
Thy twofold shout I hear ; 
From hill to hill it seems to pass, 
At once far off and near. 

Though babbling only to the vale 
Of sunshine and of tlowers, 
Thou bringest unto me a tale 
Of visionary hours. 

Thrice welcome, darling of the spring ! 
Even yet thou art to me 
No bird, but an invisible thing, 
A voice, a mystery ; 

The same whom in my school-boy days 

1 listened to ; that cry 

Which made me look a thousand ways, 
In bush and tree and sky. 

To seek thee did I often rove 
Through woods and on the green ; 
And thou wert still a hope, a love; 
Still longed for, never seen ! 

And T can listen to thee yet ; 
Can lie upon the ])lain 
And listen, till I do beget 
That golden time again. 

blessed bird ! the earth we pace 
Again appears to be 
An unsubstantial, fairy place 
That is fit home for thee ! 



A MEMORY. 

Three years she grew in sun and shower ; 
Then Nature said, "A lovelier flower 

On earth was never sown : 
This child I to myself will take ; 
She shall be mine, and I will make 

A lady of my own. 

"Myself will to my darling be 
Both law and impulse ; and with me 

The girl, in rock ami plain, 
In earth and heaven, in glade and bower, 
Shall feel an overseeing power 

To kindle or restrain. 



"She shall be sportive as the fawn, 
That wild with glee across the lawn 

Or up the mountain springs ; 
And hers shall be the breathing balm, 
And hers the silence and the calm. 

Of mute insensate things. 

"The floating clouds their state shall 

lend 
To her ; for her the willow bend ; 

Nor shall she fail to see 
E'en in the motions of the storm 
Grace that shall mould the maiden's form 

By silent sympathy. 

"The stars of midnight shall be dear 
To her; and she shall lean her ear 

In many a secret place. 
Where rivulets dance their wayward 

round. 
And beauty born of murmuring sound 

Shall pass into her face. 

"And vital feelings of delight 
Shall rear her foi-m to stately heiglit. 

Her virgin bosom swell ; 
Such thoughts to Lucy I will give 
While she and 1 together live 

Here in this happy dell." 

Thus Naturespake. The work wasdone — 
How soon my Lucy's race was run ! 

She died, and left to me 
This heath, this calm and quiet scene ; 
The memory of what has been, 

And nevermore will be. 



SHE WAS A PHANTOM OF DELIGHT. 

She was a phantom of delight 
When first she gleamed upon my sight; 
A lovely apparition, sent 
To be a moment's ornament ; 
Her eyes as stars of twilight fair ; 
Like twilight's, too, her dusky hair ; 
But all things else about her drawn 
From May-time and the cheerful dawn; 
A dancing shape, an image gay. 
To haunt, to startle, and waylay. 

I saw her upon nearer view, 

A spirit, yet a woman too ! 

Her household motions light and free. 

And steps of virgin liberty ; 

A countenance in which did meet 

Sweet records, promises as sweet ; 




'While I am lying on the grass." — Page 



WILLIAM WORDSWOETH. 



101 



A creature not too bright or good 
For human nature's daily food, 
For transient sorrows, simple wiles, 
Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and 
smiles. 

And now I see with eye serene 
The very pulse of the machine ; 
A being breathing thoughtful breath, 
A traveller between life and death ; 
The reason firm, the temperate will. 
Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill ; 
A perfect woman, nobly planned 
To warn, to comfort, and command; 
And yet a spirit still, and bright 
With something of an angel light. 



YAKROW UNVISITED. 

From Stirling Castle we had seen 

The mazy Forth unravelled ; 
Had trod the banks of Clyde and Tay, 

And with the Tweed had travelled ; 
And when we came to Clovenford, 

Then said my "winsome Marrow," 
"Whate'er betide, we '11 turn aside, 

And see the Braes of Yarrow." 

"Let Yarrow folk, frae Selkirk town, 

Who have been buying, selling. 
Go back to Yarrow, 't is their own. 

Each maiden to her dwelling ! 
On Yarrow's banks let herons feed. 

Hares couch, and rabbits burrow ! 
But we will downward with the Tweed, 

Nor turn aside to Yarrow. 

"There 's Galla Water, Leader Haughs, 

Both lying right before us ; 
And Dry burgh, where with chiming 
Tweed _ 

The lintwhites sing in chorus ; 
There 's pleasant Teviotdale, a land 

Made blithe with plough and haiTOW ; 
Why throw away a needfid day 

To go in search of Yarrow ? 

"What 's Yarrow but a river bare. 

That glides the dark hills under? 
There are a thousand such elsewhere 

As worthy of your w'onder." 
— Strange words they seemed of slight 
and scorn ; 

My true-love sighed for sorrow. 
And looked me in the face, to think 

I thus could speak of Yarrow ! 



"0, green," said I, "are Yarrow's 
holms. 

And sweet is Yarrow flowing ! 
Fair hangs the aj)ple frae the rock, 

But we will leave it growing. 
O'er hilly path and open strath 

We '11 wander Scotland thorough ; 
But, though so near, we will not turn 

Into the dale of Yarrow. 

" Let beeves and home-bred kine partake 

The sweets of Buin Mill meadow ; 
The swan on still Saint Mary's Lake 

Float double, swan and shadow ! 
We will not see them ; will not go 

To-day, nor yet to-morrow ; 
Enough if in our hearts we know 

There 's such a place as Yarrow. 

" Be Yarrow stream unseen, unknown ! 

It must, or we shall rue it : 
We have a vision of our own ; 

Ah ! why should we undo it? 
The treasured dreams of times long past, 

We '11 keep them, winsome Mari'ow ! 
For when we 're there, although 't is fair, 

'T will be another Yarrow ! 

" If care with freezing years should come, 

And wandering seem but folly, — 
Should we be loath to stir from home. 

And yet be melancholy ; 
Should life be dull, and spirits low, 

'T will soothe us in our sorrow 
That earth has something yet to show. 

The bonny holms of Yariow !" 



ON A PICTURE OF PEELE CASTLE IN 
A STORM. 

Painted by Sir George Beaumont. 

I WAS thy neighbor once, thou rugged 

pile ! 
Four summer weeks I dwelt in sight of 

thee: 
I saw thee every day ; and all the while 
Thy form was sleejiing on a glassy sea. 

So pure the sky, so quiet was the air ! 
So like, so very like, was day to day ! 
Whene'er I looked, thy image still was 

there ; 
It trembled, but it never passed nway. 



102 



SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 



How perfect was the calm! It seemed 

no sleep, 
No mood, which season takes away, or 

brings : 
I could have fancied that the mighty 

Deep 
Was even the gentlest of all gentle things. 

Ah ! then if mine had been the painter's 

hand 
To express what then I saw; and add 

the gleam. 
The light that never was on sea or land, 
Thecon.secration, and the poet's dream, — 

I would have planted thee, thou hoary 

pile, 
Amid a world how different from this ! 
Beside a sea that could not cease to smile ; 
On tranquil land, beneath a sky of bliss. 

A picture had it been of lasting ease, 
Elysian quiet, without toil or strife ; 
No motion but the moving tide, a breeze ; 
Or merely silent Nature's breatliing life. 

Such, in the fond illusion of my heart. 
Such picture would I at that time have 

made ; 
And seen the soul of truth in every part, 
A steadfast peace that might not be 

betrayed. 

So once it would have been, — 't is so no 

more ; 
I have submitted to a new control : 
A power is gone, which nothing can 

restore ; 
A deep distress hath humanized my soul. 

Not for a moment could I now behold 
A smiling sea, and be what I have been : 
The feeling of my loss will ne'er be 

old; 
This, which I know, I speak with mind 

serene. 

Then, Beaumont, Friend ! who would 
have been the friend. 

If he had lived, of him whom I deplore. 

This work of thine I blame not, but com- 
mend ; 

This sea in anger, and that dismal shore. 

0, 'tis a passionate work ! — yet wise and 

well. 
Well chosen is the spirit that is here ; 



That hulk which labors in the deadly 

swell. 
This rueful sky, this pageantry of fear ! 

And this huge castle, standing here sub- 
lime, 

I love to see the look with Avhich it 
braves — 

Cased in the unfeeling armor of old 
time — 

The lightning, the fierce wind, and tramp- 
ling waves. 

Farewell, farewell the heart that lives 

alone. 
Housed in a dream, at distance from the 

kind! 
Such happiness, wherever it be known, 
Is to be pitied; for 't is surely blind. 

Itut welcome fortitude, and ])atient cheer, 
And frequent sights of what is to be 

borne ! 
Such sights, or worse, as are before me 

here : — 
Not without hope we suffer and we mourn. 



ODE TO DUTY. 

Stern daughter of the voice of God ! 
Duty ! if that name thou love. 
Who art a light to guide, a rod 
To check the erring, and reprove; 
Thou who art victory and law 
AVhen empty terrors overawe. 
From vain temptations dost set free, 
And calm'st the weary strife of frail hu- 
manity ! 

There are who ask not if thine eye 
Be on them ; who, in love and truth, 
Where no misgiving is, rely 
Upon the genial sense of youth : 
Glad hearts! without reproach or blot; 
Who do thy work, and know it not : 
May joy be theirs wliile Jife shall last ! 
And thou, if they should totter, teach 
them to stand fast ! 

Serene will be our days and bright. 
And hapfiy will our nature be. 
When love is an unerring light. 
And joy its own security. 
And blest are they who in the main 
This faith, even now, do entertain : 



WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 



103 



Live in the spirit of this creed ; 
Yet find that other strength, according to 
their need. 

I, loving freedom, and untried. 
No sport of every random gust, 
Yet being to myself a guide. 
Too blindly have i-eposed my trust ; 
Full oft, when in my heart was heard 
Thy timely mandate, I deferred 
The task imposed, from day to day ; 
But thee I now would serve more strict- 
ly, if I may. 

Through no disturbance of my soul. 

Or strong compunction in me wrought, 

I supjjlicate for thy control ; 

But in the quietness of thought : 

Me this unchartered freedom tires ; 

I feel the weight of chance desires : 

My hopes no more must change their 

name, 
I long for a repose which ever is the same. 

Stern lawgiver ! j'et thou dost wear 
The Godhead's most benignant grace ; 
Nor know we anything so fair 
As is the smile upon thy face. 
Flowers laugh before thee on their beds. 
And fragrance in thy footing treads ; 
Thou dost preserve the stars from wrong, 
And the most ancient heavens, through 
thee, are fresh and strong. 

To humbler functions, awful power ! 
1 call thee: I myself commend 
Unto thy guidance from this hour; 
O, let my weakness have an end ! 
Give unto me, made lowly wise, 
The spirit of self-sacrifice ; 
The confidence of reason give ; 
And, in the light of truth, thy bondman 
let me live ! 



TO SLEEP. 

A FLOCK of sheep that leisurely pass by 
One after one ; the sound of rain, and bees 
Murmuring; the fall of rivers, winds 

and seas, 
Smooth fields, white sheets of water, and 

])me sky; — 

I 've thought of all by turns, and still I 

lie 
Sleepless; and soon the small birds' 

melodies 



Must hear, first uttered from my orchard 

trees, 
And the first cuckoo's melancholy cry. 

Even thus last night, and two nights 

more I lay, 
And could not win thee. Sleep ! by any 

stealth : 
So do not let me wear to-night away : 
Without thee what is all the morning's 

wealth ? 
Come, blessed barrier between day and 

day. 
Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous 

health ! 

THE WORLD. 

The world is too much with us ; late and 

soon, 
Getting and spending, we lay waste our 

powers : 
Little we see in nature that is ours ; 
We have given our hearts away, a sordid 

boon ! 
This sea that bares her bosom to the 

moon, 
The winds that will be howling at all 

hours 
And are up-gathered now like sleeping 

flowers. 
For this, for everytliing, we are out of 

tune; 
It moves us not. Great God ! I 'd rather 

be 
A pagan suckled in a creed outworn ; 
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, 
Have glimj)ses that would make me less 

forlorn. 
Have sight of Proteus coming from the 

sea. 
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed 

horn. 

TO THE RIVER DUDDON. 

I THOUGHT of thee, my partner and my 
guide. 
As being passed away, — vain sympa- 
thies ! 
For backward, Duddon ! as I cast my 
eyes, 
I see what was, and is, and will abide : 
Still glides the stream, and shall forever 
glide ; 
The form remains, the function never 
dies: 



104 



SONGS OF THUEE CENTUKIES. 



While we, the brave, the mighty, and 
the wise, 
We men, who in our mom of youth 

defied 
The elements, must vanish ; — be it so ! 
Enougli, if something from our hands 

have power 
To live, and act, and serve the future 
hour ; 
And if, as toward the silent tomb we 

Through love, through hope, andfaitli's 
transcendent dower. 
We feel that we are greater than we know. 



SIR WALTER SCOTT. 

[1771-1832.] 

YOUNG LOCHINVAR. 

0, YOUNG Lochinvar is come out of the 

west, 
Through all the wide Border his steed 

was the best ; 
And save his good broadsword he weapon 

had none, 
He rode all unanned, and he rode all 

alone. 
So faithful in love, and so dauntless in 

war. 
There never was knight like the young 

Lochinvar ! 

He stayed not for brake, and he stopped 
not for stone. 

He swam the Esk River where ford there 
was none ; 

But, ere he alighted at Netherby gate. 

The bride had consented, the gallant came 
late : 

For a lagganl in love, and a dastard in 
war. 

Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Loch- 
invar. 

So boldly he entered the Ketherby HaH, 
'Mong bridesmen, and kinsmen, and 

brothers, and all ! 
Then spoke the bride's father, his hand 

on his sword, — 
For the poor craven bridegroom said 

never a word, — 



' ' 0, come ye in peace here, or come ye in 

war, 
Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord 

Lochinvar ?" 

"1 long wooed your daughter, my suit 

you denied : 
Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like 

its tide ! 
And now am I come, with this lost love 

of mine. 
To lead but one measure, drink one cup 

of wine ! 
There be maidens in Scotland more 

lovely by far, 
That would gladly be bride to the young 

Lochinvar ! " 

The bride kissed the goblet ; the knight 

took it up. 
He quaflfed off the wine, and he threw 

down the cup ! 
She looked down to blush, and she looked 

up to sigh. 
With a smile on her lips and a tear in 

her eye. 
He took her soft hand, ere her mother 

could bar, — 
"Now tread we a measure !" said young 

Lochinvar. 

So stately his form, and so lovely her 

face, 
That never a hall such a galliard did 

gi'ace ! 
While her mother did fret, and her father 

did fume, 
And the bridegroom stood dangling his 

bonnet and plume. 
And the bride-maidens whispered, 

"'T were better by far 
To have matched our fair cousin with 

young Lochinvar!" 

One touch to her hand, and one word in 

her ear, 
When they reached the hall door, and 

the charger stood near, 
So light to the croupe the fair lady he 

swung. 
So light to the saddle before her he 

sprung. 
"She is won! we are gone, over bank, 

bush, and scaur; 
They'll have fleet steeds that follow!" 

quoth young Lochinvar, 



SIR WALTER SCOTT. 



lOJ 



There was mounting 'mong Gr£emes of 

the Netlierby clan ; 
Fosters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they 

rode and they ran ; 
There was racing and chasing on Canno- 

bie Lea, 
But the lost bride of Xetherby ne'er did 

they see ! 
So daring in love, and so dauntless in 

war, 
Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young 

Lochiuvar ? 



A SERENADE. 

Ah ! County Guy, the hour is nigh, 

The sun has left the lea, 
The orange-flower perfumes the bower, 

The breeze is on the sea. 
The lark, his lay who trilled all day. 

Sits hushed his partner nigh ; 
Breeze, bird, and flower confess the hour, 

But where is County Guy ? 

The village maid steals through the shade 

Her shepherd's suit to hear ; 
To Beauty shy, by lattice high, 

Sings high-born Cavalier. 
The star of Love, all stars above. 

Now reigns o'er earth and sky, 
And high and low the influence know, — 

But where is County Guy ? 



SONG. 

"A WEARY lot is thine, fair maid, 

A weary lot is thine ! 
To pull the thorn thy brow to braid. 

And press the rue for wine ! 
A lightsome eye, a soldier's mien, 

A feather of the blue, 
A doublet of the Lincoln-green, — 

No more of me you knew. 

My love ! 
No more of me you knew. 

"This morn is merry June, I trow, - 

The rose is budding fain ; 
But she shall bloom in winter snow 

Ere we two meet again." 
He turned his charger as he spake, 

Upon the river shore ; 
He gave his bridle-reins a shake. 

Said, "Adieu forevermore. 

My love ! 
And adieu forevermore." 



LAY OF THE IMPRISONED HUNTS- 
MAN. 

My hawk is tired of perch and hood, 
My idle greyhound loathes his food, 
My horse is weary of his stall, 
And 1 am sick of captive thrall. 
1 wish I were as I have been, 
Hunting the hart in forests green, 
With bended bow and bloodhound free, 
For that 's the life is meet for me. 

I hate to learn the ebb of time 

From yon dull steeple's drowsy chime, 

Or mark it as the sunbeams crawl. 

Inch after inch, along the wall. 

The lark was wont my matins ring, 

The sable rook my vespers sing ; 

These towers, akhough a king's they be, 

Have not a hall of joy for me. 

No more at dawning morn I rise. 
And sun myself in Ellen's eyes, 
Drive the fleet deer the forest through. 
And homeward wend with evening dew ; 
A blithesome welcome blithely meet. 
And lay my trophies at her feet, 
While fled the eve on wing of glee, — 
That life is lost to love and me ! 



THE TROSACHS. 

The western waves of ebbing day 
Rolled o'er the glen their level way ; 
Each purple peak, each flinty spire, 
Was bathed in floods of living fire. 
But not a setting beam could glow 
Within the dark ravines below, 
Where twined the path, in shadow hid, 
Round many a rocky pyramitl. 
Shooting abruptly from the dell 
Its thunder-splintered pinnacle; 
Round many an insulated mass. 
The native bulwarks of the pass. 
Huge as the tower which builders vain 
Presumptuous piled on Shinar's plain. 
Their rocky summits, split and rent. 
Formed turret, dome, or battlement, 
Or seemed fantastically set 
With cupola or minaret, 
Wild crests as pagod ever decked, 
Or mosque of Eastern architect. 
Nor were these earth-born castles bare, 
Nor lacked they many a banner fair ; 
For, from their shivered brows displayed. 
Far o'er the unfathomable glade. 
All twinkling with the dew-drop sheen, 



106 



SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 



The brier-rose fell in streamers fjreen, 
And creeping shrubs of thousand dyes, 
"Waved in the west-wind's summer sighs. 

Boon nature scattered, free and wild, 
Eachplantorflower, the mountain's child. 
Here eglantine embalmed the air, 
Hawtliorn and hazel mingled there ; 
The primrose pale, and violet flower, 
Found in each cliff a narrow bower; 
Foxglove and nightshade, side by side, 
Emblems of punishment and pride. 
Grouped their dark hues with every stain, 
The weather-beaten crags retain. 
With boughs that quaked at every breath. 
Gray birch and aspen wept beneath ; 
Aloft, the ash and warrior oak- 
Cast anchor in the rifted rock ; 
And higher yet, the pine-tree hung 
His shattered trunk, and frequent flung, 
Where seemed the cliffs to meet on high. 
His boughs athwart the narrowed sky. 
Highest of ail, where white peaks glanced. 
Where glistening streamers waved and 

danced. 
The wanderer's eye could barely view 
The summer heaven's delicious blue ; 
So wondrous wild, the whole might seem 
The scenery of a fairy dream. 
Onward, amid the copse 'gan peep 
A narrow inlet, still and deep. 
Affording scarce such breadth of brim. 
As served the wild-duck's brood to swiin ; 
Lost for a space, through thickets veering, 
But broader when again a])pearing. 
Tall rocks and tufteil knolls their face 
Could on the dark-blue mirror trace ; 
And farther as the hunter strayed. 
Still broader sweep its channels made. 
The shaggy mounds no longer stood, 
Emerging from entangled wood, 
But, wave-encircled, seemed to float, 
Like castle girdled with its moat ; 
Yet broader floods extending still, 
Divide them from their parent hill, 
Till each, retiring, claims to be 
An islet in an inland sea. 

And now, to issue from the glen. 

No pathway meets the wanderer's ken. 

Unless he climb, with footing nice, 

A far-projecting preci}>ice. 

The broom's tough roots his ladder made. 

The hazel saplings lent their aid ; 

An<l thus an airy point he won. 

Where, gleaming with the setting sun. 

One burnished sheet of living gold, 



Loch-Katrine lay lieneath him rolled; 

In all her length far winding lay. 

With promontory, creek, and bay. 

And islands that, empurpled bright, 

Floated amid the livelier light ; 

And mountains, that like giants stand, 

To sentinel enchanted land. 

High on the south, huge Ben-venue 

Down to the lake in masses threw 

Crags, knolls, and mounds, confusedly 

hurled. 
The fragments of an earlier world ; 
A wildering forest feathered o'er 
His ruined sides and summit hoar, 
While on the north, through middle air, 
Ben-an heaved high his forehead bare. 

From the steep promontory gazed 
The stranger, ra]itui"ed and amazed, 
And "What a scene were here," he cried, 
"For princely pomp or churchman's 

pride ! 
On this bold brow, a lordly tower ; 
In that soft vale, a lady's bower; 
On yonder meadow, far away, 
The turrets of a cloister gray ; 
How blithely might the buglt>-horn 
Chide, on the lake, the lingering morn ! 
How sweet, at eve, the lover's lute. 
Chime, when the groves are still and 

mute ! 
And when the midnight moon shouldlave 
Her forehead in the silver wave. 
How .solemn on the ear would come 
The holy matins' di.stant hum, 
While the deej) peal's commanding tone 
Should wake, in yonder islet lone, 
A sainted hermit from his cell, 
To drop a bead with every knell, — 
And bugle, lute, and bell, and all. 
Should each bewildered stranger call 
To friendly feast and lighted hall." 



CORONACH. 

He is gone on the mountain, 

He is lost to the forest. 
Like a summer-dried fountain, 

When our need was the sorest. 
The font reappearing 

From the rain-drops shall borrow; 
But to us comes no cheering. 

To Duncan no morrow ! 

The hand of the reaper 

Takes the ears that are lioary, 




"Lock-Katrine lay beneath him rolled." —Page io6- 



SIR WALTER SCOTT. 



107 



But the voice of the weeper 
Wails manhood in glory. 

The autumn winds, rushing, 
Waft the leaves that are searest ; 

But our flower was in flushing, 
When blighting was nearest. 

Fleet foot on the correi, 

Sage counsel in cumber, 
Eed hand in the foray, 

How sound is thy slumber ! 
Like the dew on the mountain, 

Like the foam on the river. 
Like the bubble on the fountain. 

Thou art irone, and forever. 



HYMN OF THE HEBREW MAID. 

When Israel, of the Lord beloved. 

Out i'rom the land of bondage came. 
Her father's God before her moved, 

An awful guide in smoke and flame. 
By day, along the astonished lands. 

The cloudy pillar glided slow ; 
By night, Arabia's crimsoned sands 

Returned the fiery column's glow. 

There rose the choral hymn of praise. 

And trump and timbrel answered keen ; 
And Zion's daughters ]ioured their lays. 

With priest's and warrior's voice be- 
tween. 
No portents now our foes amaze, — 

Forsaken Israel wanders lone ; 
Our fathers would not know thy ways. 

And thou hast left them to their own. 

But, present still, though now unseen. 

When brightly shines the prosperous 
day. 
Be thoughts of thee a cloudy screen. 

To temper the deceitful ray. 
And 0, when stoops on Judah's path 

In shade and storm the frequent night. 
Be thou, long-suffering, slow to wrath, 

A burning and a shining light ! 

Our harps we left by Babel's streams, — 

The tyrant's jest, the Gentile's scorn ; 
No censer round our altar beams, 

And mute are timbrel, trump, and horn. 
But thou hast said, The blood of goats. 

The flesh of rams, I will not prize, — 
A contrite heart, and humble thoughts. 

Are mine accepted sacrifice. 



CHRISTMAS-TIME. 

Heap on more wood ! — the wind is chill ; 
But let it whistle as it will, 
We '11 keep our Christmas merry still. 
Each age has deemed the new-born year 
The fittest time for festal cheer : 
Even heathen yet, the savage Dane 
At lol more deep the mead did drain ; 
High on the beach his galleys drew. 
And feasted all his pirate crew ; 
Then in his low and pine-built hall. 
Where shields and axes decked the 

wall. 
They gorged upon the half-dressed steer; 
Caroused in seas of sable beer ; 
While round, in brutal jest, wei'e thrown 
The half-gnawed rib and marrow-bone. 
Or li.stened all, in grim delight. 
While scalds yelled out the joys of fight. 
Then forth in frenzy would they hie, 
While wildly loose their red locks fly ; 
And, dancing round the blazing pile. 
They make such barbarous mirth the 

while. 
As best might to the mind recall 
The boisterous joys of Odin's hall. 

And well our Christian sires of old 
Loved when the year itscoursehad rolled. 
And brought blitheChristmas back again. 
With all his hospitable train. 
Domestic and religious rite 
Gave honor to the holy night: 
On Christmas eve the bells were rung; 
On Christmas eve the mass was sung ; 
That only night, in all the year. 
Saw the stoled ])riest the chalice rear. 
The damsel donned her kirtle sheen ; 
The hall "was dressed with holly green ; 
Foi'th to the wood did merry-men go, 
To gather in the mistletoe. 
Then opened wide the baron's hall 
To vassal, tenant, serf, and all ; 
Power laid his rod of rule aside. 
And Ceremony doffed his pride. 
The heir, with roses in his shoes, 
That night might village partner choose ; 
The lord, underogating, share 
The vulgar game of "post and pair." 
All hailed, with uncontrolled delight 
And general voice, the happy night 
That to the cottage, as the crown. 
Brought tidings of salvation down. 

The fire, with well-dried logs supplied, 
Went roaring up the chinmey wide ; 



108 



SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 



The huge hall-tuWe's oakon face, 
ScniWu'd till it shone the day to grace, 
Rore then upon its massive board 
No mark to part the squire and lord. 
Then was brought in the lusty brawn, 
lly old blue-eoated serving-man ; 
Then the grim boar's head frowned on 

high, 
Crested with bays and rosemary. 
Well ean the green-garbed ranger tell 
How, when, and where the monster I'ell ; 
"What dogs before his death he tore, 
And all fhe baiting of the boar. 
The wassail ronnd^ in good brown bowls, 
Garnished with riblnms, blithely tiowls. 
There the huge sirloin reeked ; hard by 
I'lum-jwrridge stood, andC'hristmas pie; 
Nor failed old Seotland to produce, 
At such high-tide, her savory goose. 
Then came the merry maskers in. 
And carols ivared with blithesome din ; 
If unmelodions was the song. 
It was a hearty note, and stiong. 
Wlio lists may in their mumming see 
Traces of ancient mystery ; 
"White skirts supplied the masquerade, 
And snuitted cheeks the visors made: 
]?ut, 0, what maskei-s richly dight 
Can boast of bosoms half so light ! 
England was merry England, when 
Old Christmas brought his sports again. 
'T was Christnu\s broached the mightiest 

ale ; 
'T was Christmas told the meniest tale ; 
A Christmas giimbol oft could cheer 
The poor mail's heart through half the 

year. 



SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. 
[1772 -1834.] 

GENEVIEVE. 

All thoughts, all passions, all delights, 
Whatever stirs this mortal frame, 
All are but ministers of Love, 
And feed his sacred flame. 

Oft in my waking dreams do I 
Live o'er again tliat happy hour. 
"Wlien midway on the mount I lay 
Beside the ruined tower. 

The moonshine stealing o'er the scene 
Had blended with the lights of eve ; 



And she was there, my hope, my joy, 
My owu dear Genevieve ! 

She leaned against the armed man, 
The statue of the armed knight ; 
She stood and listened to my lay, 
Amid the lingering light. 

Few sorrows hath she of her own. 
My hope ! my joy ! my Genevieve ! 
She loves me best, whene'er I sing 
The songs that make her grieve. 

I played a soft and doleful air, 
i sang an old and moving story, — 
An old rude song, that suited well 
That ruin wild and hoary. 

She listened with a flitting blush. 
With downcast eyes and modest gi-ace ; 
For well she knew, 1 could not choose 
But gaze upon her face. 

I told her of the Knight that wore 
Upon his shield a burning brand ; 
.\nd that for ten long years he wooed 
The Lady of the Laud. 

I told her how he ] lined : and ah ! 
The di'cp. the low, the jdeading tone 
With which 1 sang another's love 
Interpreted my own. 

She listened with a flitting blush. 
With downcast eyes, and modest giace ; 
And she forgave me, that I gazed 
Too fondly on her face. 

But when I told the cruel scorn 
That cnxzed that bold and lovely Knight, 
And that he crossed the mountain-woods, 
Nor rested day nor night ; 

That sometimes from the savage den. 
And sometimes from the darksome shade. 
And sometimes starting up at once 
lu green and sunny glade. 

There came and looked him in the face 
An angel beautiful and bright ; 
And that he knew it was a Fiend, 
This miserable Knight ! 

And that unknowing what he did. 
He leaped amid a murderous band. 
And saved from outwije ■woi'se tluui death, 
The Lady of the^Land; 




'T WAS CHKIST.MAb T.JLD T 



HE MEKKIEST TALE."— Page 



SAMUEL TAYLOR COLEEIDGE. 



109 



And how she wept, and clasped his knees ; 
And how she tended him in vain; 
And ever strove to ex])iate 

The scorn that crazed his brain ; 

And that she nursed him in a cave, 
And how his madness went away, 
When on the yellow forest-leaves 
A dying man he lay ; 

— His dying words — but when I reached 
That tenderest strain of all the ditty. 
My faltering voice and j^ausing harp 
Disturbed her soul with pity ! 

All impulses of soul and sense 
Had thrilled my guileless Genevieve; 
The music and the doleful tale, 
The rich and balmy eve ; 

And hopes, and fears that kindle hope. 
An undistinguishable throng, 
And gentle wishes long subdued, 
Subdued and cherished long. 

She wept with pity and delight, 
She blushed with love, and virgin shame ; 
And like the murmur of a dream, 
I heard her breathe my name. 

Her bosom heaved, — she stepped aside, 
As conscious of my look she stept, — 
Then suddenly, with timorous eye. 
She fled to me and wept. 

She half enclosed me with her arms, 
She pressed me with a meek embrace ; 
And, bending back her head, looked up, 
And gazed upon my face. 



'T was partly love, and partly fear, 
And partly 't was a bashful art 
That I might rather feel than see 
The swelling of her heart. 

I calmed her fears, and she was calm. 
And told her love with virgin pride ; 
And so I won my Genevieve, 

My bright and beauteous Bride. 



HYMK BEFORE SUNRISE, IN THE 
VALE OP CHAMOUNI. 

Hast thou a charm to stay the morning 

star 
In his steep course ? So long he seems 

to pause 



On thy bald, awful head, sovran Blanc ! 
The Arve and Arveirou at thy base 
Kave ceaselessly ; but thou, most awful 

Form ! 
Risest from forth thy silent sea of pines 
How silently ! Around thee and above 
Deep is the air, and dark, substantial, 

black. 
An ebon mass : methinks thou piercest it 
As with a wedge ! But when I look again. 
It is thine own calm home, thy crystal 

shrine. 
Thy habitation from eternity ! 

dread and silent Mount ! I gazed upon 

thee. 
Till thou, still present to tlie bodily sense, 
Didst vanish from my thought : entranced 

in prayer 

1 worshipped the Invisible alone. 

Yet, like some sweet beguiling melody, 
So sweet we know not we are listening 

to it, 
Thou, the meanwhile, wert blending with 

my thought. 
Yea, with my life and life's own secret joy, 
Till the dilating soul, enrapt, transfused, 
Into the niighty vision passing, there, 
As in her natural form, swelled vast to 

Heaven ! 
Awake, my soul ! not only passive praise 
Thou owest! not alone these swelling 

tears, 
Mute thanks, and secret ecstasy ! Awake, 
Voice of sweet song ! Awake, my heart, 

awake ! 
Green vales and icy cliffs, all join my 

hymn. 
Thou first and chief, sole sovran of the 

vale! 
0, struggling with the darkness all the 

night. 
And visited all night by troops of st rs. 
Or when they climb the sky or when they 

sink, — 
Companion of the morning star at dawn. 
Thyself Earth's rosy star, and of the dawn 
Co-herald,— wake, 0, wake, and utter 

praise ! 
Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in earth ? 
Who filled thy countenance with rosy 

light? 
Who made thee parent of perpetual 

streams ? 
And you, ye five wild torrents, fiercely 

glad! 
Who called you forth from night and 

utter death. 



110 



SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 



From dark and icycaverns called you forth, 

Down those precipitous, black, jagged 
rocks, 

Forever shattered and the same forever ? 

Who gave you your invulnerable life, 

Your strength, your speed, your fury, and 
your joy. 

Unceasing thunder and eternal foam ? 

And who commanded (and the silence 
came), 

Here let the billows stiffen and have rest ? 
Ye ice-falls ! ye that from the moun- 
tain's brow 

Adown enormous ravines slope amain, — 

Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty 
voice, 

And stopped at once amid their maddest 
pkinge ! 

Motionless torrents ! silent cataracts ! 

"Who made you glorious as the gates of 
Heaven 

Beneath the keen full moon ? Who bade 
the sun 

Clothe you with rainbows ? Who, with 
living flowers 

Of loveliest blue, spread garlands at your 
feet ? — 

God! let the torrents, like a shout of 
nations, 

Answer ! and let the ice-plains echo, God ! 

God ! sing, ye meadow - streams, with 
gladsome voice ! 

Ye pine-groves, with your soft and soul- 
like sounds ! ' 

And they too have a voice, yon piles of 
snow. 

And in their perilous fall shall thunder, 
God! 
Ye living flowers that skirt the eternal 
frost ! 

Ye wild goats sporting round the eagle's 
nest ! 

Ye eagles, playmates of the mountain- 
storm ! 

Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the 
clouds ! 

Ye signs and wonders of the elements. 

Utter forth God, and fill the hills with 
praise ! 
Thou, too, hoar Mount ! with thy sky- 
pointing peaks. 

Oft from whose feet the avalanche, un- 
heard, 

Shoots downward, glittering through the 
pure serene, 

Into the depth of clouds that veil thy 
breast, — 



Thou too again, stupendous Mountain! 

thou 
That as I raise my head, awhile bowed low 
In adoration, upward from thy base 
Slow travelling with dim eyes suffused 

with tears. 
Solemnly seemest like a vapory cloud 
To rise before me — Rise, 0, ever rise. 
Rise like a cloud of incense from the 

Earth ! 
Thou kingly Spirit throned among the 

hills, 
Thou dread ambassador from Eartli to 

Heaven, 
Great hierarch ! tell thou the silent sky, 
And tell the stars, and tell yon risingsun, 
Earth, with her thousand voices, praises 

God. 



CHRISTABEL. 



'T IS the middle of night by the castle 

clock. 
And the owls have awakened the crowing 

cock ; 
Tu-whit ! tu-whoo ! 
And hark, again ! the crowing cock, 
How drowsily it crew. 

Sir Leoline, the Baron rich, 
Hatli a toothless mastiff bitch ; 
From her kennel beneath the rock 
She maketh answer to the clock. 
Four for the quarters, and twelve for the 

hour ; 
Ever and aye, by shine and shower. 
Sixteen short howls, not over-loud ; 
Some say, she sees my lady's shroud. 

Is the night chilly and dark ? 
The night is chilly, but not dark. 
The thin gray cloud is spread on high. 
It covers but not hides the sky. 
The moon is behind, and at the full ; 
And yet she looks both small and dull. 
The night is chill, the cloud is gray ; 
'T is a month before the month of May, 
And the Spring- comes slowly up this way. 

The lovely lady, Christabel, 
Whom her father loves so well, 
What makes her in the wood so late, 
A furlong from the castle gate ? 
She had dreams all yesternight 
Of her own betrothed knight; 



SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. 



Ill 



And she in the midnight wood will pray 
For the weal of her lover that 's far away. 

She stole along, she nothing spoke, 
The sighs she heaved were soft and low, 
And naught was green npon the oak, 
But moss and rarest mistletoe : 
She kneels beneath the huge oak-tree, 
And in silence prayeth she. 

The lady sprang up suddenly, 
The lovely lady, Christahel ! 
It moaned as near as near can be. 
But what it is she cannot tell. 
On the other side it seems to be 
Of the huge, broad-breasted, old oak-tree. 

The night is chill ; the forest bare ; 
Is it the wind that moaneth bleak ? 
There is not wind enough in the air 
To move away the ringlet curl 
From the lovely lady's cheek, — 
There is not wind enough to twirl 
The one red leaf, the last of its clan. 
That dances as often as dance it can, 
Hanging so light, and hanging so high, 
On the topmost twig that looks up at the 
sky. 

Hush, beating heart of Christahel ! 
Jesu Maria, shield her well ! 
She folded her arms beneath her cloak. 
And stole to the other side of the oak. 
What sees she there ? 

There she sees a damsel bright, 
Drest in a silken robe of white, 
That shadowy in the moonlight shone . 
The neck that made that white robe wan. 
Her stately neck, and arms were bare ; 
Her blue-veined feet unsandalled were. 
And wildly glittered here and there 
The gems entangled in her hair. 
I guess, 't was frightful there to see 
A lady so richly clad as she, — 
Beautiful exceedingly ! 

"Mary mother, save me now!" 
Said Christahel; "and who art thou?" 

The lady strange made answer meet. 
And her voice was faint and sweet : 
"Have pity on my sore distress, 
I scarce can speak for weariness." 
"Stretch forth thy hand, and have no 

fear ! " 
Said Christahel; "how earnest thou 
here?" 



And the lady, whose Toice was faint and 

sweet. 
Did thus pursue her answer meet : — 

"My sire is of a noble line, 
And my name is Geraldine : 
Five warriors seized me yestermorn, — 
Me, even me, a maid forlorn ; 
They choked my cries with force and 

fright. 
And tied me on a palfrey white. 
The palfrey was as heet as wind, 
And they rode furiously behind. 
They spurred amain, their steeds were 

white. 
And once we crossed the shade of night. 
As sure as Heaven shall rescue me, 
I have no thought what men they he; 
Nor do I know how long it is 
(For I have lain entranced, I wis) 
Since one, the tallest of the five. 
Took me from the palfrey's back, 
A weary woman, scarce alive. 
Some muttered words his comradesspoke : 
He placed me underneath this oak ; 
He swore they would return with haste ; 
Whither they went I cannot tell — 
I thought I heaid, some minutes past, 
Sounds as of a castle-hell. 
Stretch forth thy hand" (thus endedshe), 
" And help a wretched maid to flee." 

Then Christahel stretched forth her 
hand 
And comforted fair Geraldine : 
"0 well, bright dame ! may you command 
The service of Sir Leoline; 
And gladly our stout chivalry 
Will he send forth, and friends withal, 
To guide and guard you safe and free 
Home to your noble father's hall." 

She rose: and forth with steps they 
passed 
That strove to be, and were not, fast. 
Her gracious stars the lady blest. 
And thus spake on sweet Christahel : 
"All our household are at rest. 
The hall as silent as the cell ; 
Sir Leoline is weak in health. 
And may not well awakened he, 
But we will move as if in stealth, 
And I beseech your courtesy, 
This night, to share your couch with me." 

Tliey crossed the moat, and Christahel 
Took the key that fitted well ; 



112 



SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 



A little door she opened straight, 

All in the middle of the gate ; 

The gate that was ironed within and 

without, 
Where an ai'iny in hattle array had 

marched oat. 
The lady sank, belike through pain, 
And ChVistabel with might and main 
Lifted her up, a weary weight, 
Over the threshold of the gate : 
Then the lady rose again. 
And moved, as she were not in pain. 

So free from danger, free from fear, 
They crossed the court : right glad they 

were. 
And Christabel devoutly cried 
To the lady by her side : 
"Praise we the Virgin all divine 
Who hath rescued thee from thy distress ! " 
"Alas, alas!" said Geraldine, 
I cannot speak for weariness." — 
So free from danger, free from fear. 
They crossed the court : right glad they 
were. 

Outside her kennel the mastiff old 
Lay fast asleep, in moonshine cold. 
The mastiff" old did not awake, 
Yet she an angry moan did make ! 
And what can ail the mastiff" bitch ? 
Never till now she uttered yell 
Beneath the eye of Christabel. 
Perhaps it is the owlet's scritch ; 
For what can ail the mastiff hitch ? 

They passed the hall, that echoes still. 
Pass as lightly as you will ! 
The brands were flat, the brands were 

dying. 
Amid their own white ashes lying ; 
But when the lady passed, there came 
A tongue of light, a fit of flame ; 
And Christabel saw the lady's eye. 
And nothing else saw she thereby. 
Save the boss of the shield of Sir Leoline 

tall, 
Which hung in a murky old niche in the 

wall. 
"0, softly tread !" said Christabel, 
" My father seldom sleepeth well." 

Sweet Christabel her feet doth bare, 
And, jealous of the listening air, 
They steal their way from stair to stair, 
Now in glimmer, and now in gloom, 
And now they pass the Baron's room, 



As still as death with stifled breath ! 
And now have reached hei- chamber door ; 
And now doth Geraldine press down 
The rashes of the chamber floor. 

The moon shines dim in the open air, 
And not a moonbeam enters here. 
But they without its light can see 
The chamber carved so curiously. 
Carved with figures strange and sweet, 
All made out of the carver's brain. 
For a lady's chamber meet : 
The lamp with twofold silver chain 
Is fastened to an angel's feet. 
The silver lamp burns dead and dim ; 
But Christabel the lamp will trim. 
She trimmed the lamp, and made it bright. 
And left it swinging to and fro. 
While Geraldine, in wretched plight, 
Sank down upon the floor below. 

"0 weary lady, Geraldine, 
I pray you, drink thi^^ordial wine ! 
It is a wine of virtuous powers ; 
My mother made it of wild flowers." 

"And will your mother pity me. 
Who am a maiden most forlorn?" 
Christabel answered : "Woe is me ! 
She died the hour that I was born. 
I have heard the gray -haired friar tell, 
How on her death-bed she did saj'. 
That she should hear the castle-bell 
Strike twelve upon my wedding-day. 

mother dear ! that thou wert here !" 
"I would," said Geraldine, "she were!" 
But soon with altered voice, said she : 

' ' Off", wandering mother ! Peak and pine ! 

1 have power to bid thee flee." 
Alas ! what ails poor Geraldine? 
Why stares she with unsettled eye ? 
Can she the bodiless dead espy ? 
And why with hollow voice cries she : 
"Off, woman, off"! this hour is mine, — 
Though thou her guardian spirit be, 
Off", woman, off"! 'T is given to me." 

Then Christabel knelt by the lady's 
side. 
And raised to heaven her eyes so blue ; 
"Alas !" said she, "this ghastly ride, — 
Dear lady ! it hath wildered you !" 
The lady wiped her moist cold brow. 
And faintly said, " 'T is over now !" 

Again the wild-flower wine she drank : 
Her fair large eyes 'gan glitter bright, 



SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. 



113 



And from the floor wliereon she sank 
The lofty lady stood upright ; 
She was most beautii'ul to see, 
Like a huly of a far countiee. 

And thus the lofty lady spake : 
"All they who live in the upper sky 
Do love you, holy Christabel ! 
And you love them, and for their sake 
And for the good which nie befell, 
Even I in my degree will try, 
Fair maiden, to requite you well. 
But now unrobe yourself; for I 
Must Xiray, ere yet in bed I lie." 

Quoth Christabel, "So let it be !" 
And as the lady bade, did she. 
Her gentle limbs did she undress, 
And lay down in her loveliness. 

But through her brain, of weal and woe 
So many thoughts moved to and i'ro, 
Tliat vain it were her lids to close ; 
So half-way from the bed she rose, 
And on her elbow did recline 
To look at the Lady Geraldine. 

Beneath the lamp the lady l)owed. 
And slowly rolled her eyes around ; 
Then drawing in her breath aloud. 
Like one that shuddered, she unbound 
The cincture from beneath her breast : 
Her silken robe and inner vest 
Dropt to her feet, and full in view. 
Behold ! her bosom and half her side, — 
A sight to dream of, not to tell ! 
0, shiekl her ! shield sweet Christabel ! 

Yet Geraldine nor speaks nor stirs ; 
Ah ! what a stricken look was hers ! 
Def]) from within she seems half-way 
To lift some weight with sick assay. 
And eyes tlie maid and seeks delay; 
Then suddenly as one defied 
Collects herself in scorn and pride, 
And lay down by the maiden's side ! — 
And in her arms the maid she took, 

Ah well-a-day ! 
And with low voice and doleful look. 

These words did say : 
" In the touch of this bosom there worketh 

a spell 
Which is lord of thy utterance, Christabel ! 
Thou knowest to-night, and wilt know 

to-iriorrow^ 
This mark of my shame, this seal of my 

sorrow ; 



But vainly thou warrest, 

For this is alone in 
Thy power to declare ; 

That in the dim forest 
Thou heard'st a low moaning. 
And found'st a bright lady, surpassingly 

fair : 
And didst bring her home with thee in 

love and in charity. 
To shield her and shelter her from the 
damp air." 



THE CONCLUSION TO PART I. 

It was a lovely sight to see 
The Lady Christabel, when she 
Was ju-aying at the old oak-tree. 
Amid the jagged shadows 

Of mossy leafless boughs, 
Kneeling in the moonlight. 

To make her gentle vows ; 
Her slender palms together prest. 
Heaving sometimes on her breast ; 
Her face resigned to bliss or bale, — 
Her face, 0, call it fair, not pale ! 
And both blue eyes more bright thanclear. 
Each about to have a tear. 

With open eyes (ah, woe is me !) 
Asleep, and dreaming fearfully. 
Fearfully dreaming, yet, I wis. 
Dreaming that alone which is — 
.sorrow and shame ! Can this be she. 
The lady, who knelt at the old oak-tree ? 
And lo I the woi-ker of these harms. 
That liokls the maiden in her nrms, 
Seems to slumber still and mild. 
As a mother with her child. 

A star hath set, a star hath risen, 
Geraldine ! .since arms of thine 
Have been the lovelj' ladj^'s prison. 
Geraldine ! one hour was thine, — 
Thou 'st had thy will ! By tarn and lill. 
The night-bii'ds all that hour were still. 
But now they are jubilant anew. 
From cliff and tower, tu-whoo ! tu-whoo ! 
Tu-whoo ! tu-whoo ! from wood and fell ! 
And see ! the Lady Christabel 
Gathers herself from out her trance ; 
Her limbs relax, her countenance 
Grows sad and soft ; the smooth thin lids 
Close o'er her eyes ; and tears shesheds, — 
Large tears that leave the lashes bright ! 
And oft the whih^ she seems to smile 
As infants at a sudden light! 



114 



SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 



Yea, she doth smile, and she doth weep, 
Like a youthful hermitess, 
Beauteous in a wilderness, 
Who, praying always, prays in sleep. 
And, if she move unquietly, 
Peruhance, 't is but the Wood so free, 
Comes back and tingles in her feet. 
No doubt she hath a Vision sweet. 
What if lier guardian spiiit 't were ? 
What if she knew her mother near ? 
But this she knows, in joys and woes, 
That saints will aid if men will call ; 
For the blue sky bends over all ! 



PART II. 

"Each matin-bell," the Baron saith, 
"Knells us back to a world of death." 
These words Sir Leoline first said. 
When he rose and found his lady dead : 
These words Sir Leoline will say 
Many a morn to his dying day ! 

And hence the custom and law began. 
That still at dawn the sacristan, 
Who duly pulls the heavy bell, 
Five-and-forty beads must tell 
Between each stroke, — a warning knell. 
Which not a soul can choose but hear 
From Bratha Head to Wyndermere. 

Saith Bracythe bard, "So let it knell! 
And let the drowsy sacristan 
Still count as slowly as he can ! 
There is no lack of such, I ween. 
As well fill up the space between. 
In Langdale Pike and Witch's Lair, 
And Dungeon-ghyll so foully rent, 
With roi)es of rock and bells of air 
Three sinful sextons' ghosts are pent, 
Who all give back, one after t' other. 
The death-note to their living brother; 
And oft, too, by the knell oft'ended. 
Just as their one ! two ! three ! is ended, 
The devil mocks the doleful tale 
With a merry peal from Borodale." 

The air is still ! through mist and cloud 
That merry peal comes ringing loud ; 
And Geraldine shakes off her dread, 
And rises lightly from the bed ; 
Puts on her silken vestments white, 
And tricks her hair in lovely plight. 
And, nothing doubting of her spell, 
Awakens the Lady Christabel. 



"Sleep you, sweet lady Christabel? 
I trust that you have rested well." 

And Christabel awoke and spied 
The same who lay down by her side, — 
0, rather say, the same whom she 
Raised up beneath the old oak-tree ! 
Nay, fairer yet ! and yet more fair ! 
For she belike hath drunken deep 
Of all the blessedness of sleep ! 
And while she spake, her look, her air, 
Such gentle thankfulness declare, 
Tliat (so it seemed) her girded vests 
Grew tight beneath her heaving breasts. 
"Sure I have sinned!" said Christabel, 
"Now Heaven be praised if all be well I" 
And in low faltering tones, yet sweet, 
Did she the lofty lady greet. 
With such perplexity of mind 
As dreams too lively leave behind. 

Soquickly she rose, and quickly arrayed 
Her maiden limbs, and having prayed 
That He who on the cross did groan 
Might wash away her sins unknown, 
She forthwith led fair Geraldine 
To meet her sire. Sir Leoline. 

The lovely maid and the lady tall 
Are pacing both into the hall. 
And pacing on through page and groom, 
Enter the Baron's presence-room. 

The Baron rose, and while he prest 
His gentle daughter to his breast. 
With cheerful wonder in his eyes. 
The Lady Geraldine espies, 
And gave such welcome to the same 
As might beseem so bright a dame ! 

But when he heard the lady's tale. 
And when she told her father's name. 
Why waxed Sir Leoline so pale. 
Murmuring o'er the name again. 
Lord Roland de Vaux of Tryermaine? 

Alas I they had been friends in youth ; 
But whispering tongues can poison truth ; 
And constancy lives in realms above. 
And life is thorny, and youth is vain. 
And to be wroth with one we love 
Doth work like madness in the brain. 
And thus it chanced, as I divine, 
AVith Roland and Sir Leoline. 
Each spake words of high disdain 
And insult to his heart's best brother: 
They parted, — ne'er to meet again ! 



SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. 



115 



But never either found another 

To free the liollovv heart from paining; — 

They stood aloof, the scars remaining, 

Like cliffs which had been lent asunder, 

A dreary sea now Hows between ; 

But neither heat nor frost nor thunder 

Shall wholly do away, I ween. 

The marks of that which once hath been. 

Sir Leoline a moment's space 
Stood gazing on the damsel's face. 
And the youthful Lord of Tryermaine 
Came back upon his heart again. 

0, then the Baron forgot his age. 
His noble heart swelled high with rage ; 
He swore by the wounds in Jesu's side 
He would proclaim it far and wide 
With trump and solemn heraldry, 
That they who thus had wronged the 

dame 
Were base as spotted infamy ! 
"And if they dare deny the same, 
My herald shall appoint a week. 
And let the recreant traitors seek 
My tourney court, — that there and then 
I may dislodge their reptile souls 
From the bodies and forms of men !" 
He spake : his eye in lightning rolls ! 
For the lady was ruthlessly seized ; and 

he kenned 
In the beautiful lady the child of liis friend! 

And now the tears were on his face, 
And fondly in his arms he took 
Fair Geraldine, who met the embrace, 
Prolonging it with joyous look. 
Which when she viewed, a vision fell 
Upon the soul of Christabel, 
The vision of fear, the touch and pain ! 
She shrunk and shuddered, and saw 

again — 
( .\h, woe is me ! Was it for thee. 
Thou gentle maid ! .such sights to see?) 
Again .she saw that bosom old, 
Again she felt that bosom cold. 
And drew in her breath with a hissing 

sound : 
Whereat the Knight turned wildlyround, 
And nothing saw but his own sweet maid, 
With eyes upraised, as one that prayed. 



The touch, the sight, had passed away, 
And in its stead that vi.sion blest, 
Which comforted her after-rest 
While in the lady's arms she lay, 
Had put a rapture in her breast. 



And on her lips and o'er her eyes 
Spread smiles like light ! 

With new surprise, 
"What ails then my beloved child ?" 
The Baron said. His daughter mild 
Made answer, "All will yet be well !" 
I ween, she had no power to tell 
Aught else ; so mighty was the spell. 

Yet he who saw this Geraldine 
Had deemed her sure a thing divine. 
Such sorrow with such grace she blended, 
As if she feared she had oliended 
Sweet Christabel, that gentle maid ! 
And with such lowly tones she prayed, 
She might be sent without delay 
Home to her father's mansion. 

"Nay! 
Nay, by my soul !" said Leoline. 
' ' Ho ! Bracy, the bard, the charge be 

thine ! 
Go thou, with music sweet and loud. 
And take twosteedswithtrappingsprond. 
And take the youth whom thou lov'st 

best 
To bear thy harp, and learn thy song, 
And clothe you both in solemn vest, 
And over the mountains haste along, 
Lest wandering folk, that are abroad, 
Detain you on the valley road. 
And when he has crossed thelrthingflood. 
My merry bard I he hastes, he hastes 
Up Knorren Moor, through Halegartli 

Wood, 
And reaches soon that castle good 
Which stands and threatens Scotland's 

wastes. 

"Bard Bracy! Bard Bracy! your horses 

are fleet, 
Ye must ride up the hall, your music so 

sweet. 
More loud than your horses' echoing feet ! 
And loud and loud to Lord Roland call. 
Thy daughter is safe in Langdale hall I 
Thy beautiful daughter is safe and fi-ee, — 
Sir Leoline greets thee thus through me. 
He bids thee come without delay 
With all thy numerous ari-ay. 
And take thy lovely daughter home ; 
And he will meet thee on the way 
With all his numerous array 
White with their panting palfreys' foam : 
And by mine honor ! I will say. 
That I repent me of the day 
When I spake words of fierce disdain 
To Roland de Vaux of Tryermaine ! — 



116 



SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 



For since that evil hour hath flown, 
Many a summer's sun hath shone ; 
Yet ne'er found I a friend again 
Like Rohxnd de Vaux of Tryerniaine." 

The lady fell, and clasped his knees, 
Her face upraised, licr eyes o'erHowing; 
Ami ]}rai:y re[>lii'il, with faltering voice, 
His gracious hail on all bestowing! — 
"Thy words, thou sire of Christabel, 
Ai-e sweeter than my harp can tell ; 
Yet might 1 gain a boon of thee, 
This day my journey should not be. 
So strange a dream hath come to me. 
That I had vowed with music loud 
To clear yon wood from thing unblest. 
Warned by a vision in my rest ! 
For in my sleep I saw that dove. 
That gentle bird, whom thou dost love, 
And call'stby thy own daughter's name — 
Sir Leoline! I saw the same 
Fluttering, and uttering fearful moan, 
Amongthegi'een herbs in the forest alone. 
Wliich when I saw and when I heard, 
1 wondered what might ail the bird; 
For nothing near it could I see, 
Save the grass and green herbs underneath 
the old tree. 

"And in my dream methought I went 
To search out what might there be found ; 
And what the sweet bird's trouble meant, 
Tiiat thus lay fluttering on the ground. 
I went and peered, and could descry 
No cause foi- her distressful cry ; 
But yet for her dear lady's sake 
I stooped, methought, the dove to take, 
When lo ! I saw a bright green snake 
Coiled around its wings and neck, 
Gieen as the herbs on which it couched. 
Close by the dove's its head it crouched ; 
And with tlie dove it heaves and stirs, 
Swelling its neck as she swelled hers ! 
I woke; it was the luiduinlit liour. 
The cloek was echoing in the tower; 
But though my slumber was gone by, 
Tliis dream it would not pass away, — 
It seems to live upon mj' eye I 
And thence I vowed this -selfsame day. 
With music strong and saiutly song 
To wander through the forest bai-e. 
Lest aught unholy loiter there." 

Thus Bracy said : the Baron the while 
Half-listening heard him with a smile; 
Then turned to Lady Geialdine, 
His eyes made up of wonder and love, 



And said in courtly accents fine, 
"Sweet maid, Lord Roland's beauteous 

dove, 
With anus more strong than harp or 

song, 
Thy sire and I will crush the snake !" 
He kissed her foiehead as he si)ake, 
And Geraldine, in maiden wise, 
Casting down her large briglit eyes, 
With lilushing cheek and courtesy fine 
She turneil lier from Sir Leoline; 
Softly gathering up her train, 
That o'er her right arm fell again ; 
And folded her arms across her chest, 
An<l couched her head upon her breast, 
And looked askance at Christabel — 
Jesu Maria, shield her well ! 

Asnake'ssmall eye blinksduUand shj'-, 
And the lady's eyes they shrunk in her 

head, 
Each shrunk up to a serpent's eye, 
And with somewhat of malice, and more 

of di-ead, 
At Christabel she looked askance ! — • 
One moment — and the .sight was fled! 
But Christabel, in dizzy trance 
Stumbling on the unsteady ground, 
Shudderecl aloud, with a hissing sound; 
And Geraldine again turned round. 
And like a thing that sought relief, 
Full of wonder and full of grief, 
She rolled her large bright ej-es divine 
Wildly on Sir Leoline. 

The maid, alas ! her thoucfhts are gone ; 
She nothing sees, — no sight but one! 
The maid, devoid of guile and sin, 
I know not how, in fearful wise 
So deeply had she drnrtikeri in 
That look, those .shi-uiiken sei'pent eyes, 
Tliat all her featurvs weiv resigned 
To this sole image in her mind, 
And passively did imitate 
Tliat look of dull and ti-eacher-ous hate! 
And thus .she stood in dizzy trance. 
Still picturing that look askance 
With for-ced unconscious sympathy 
Full before her father's view, — 
As far as such a look could be 
In eyes so innocent and blue ! 
And when the ti-ance was o'er, the maid 
Paused awhile, and inly pr-ayed : 
Then falling at the Bai-on's feet, 
"By my mother-'s soul do I enti-eat 
That thou this womarr send away!" 
She said : and more she could not say : 



SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. 



117 



For what she knew she coukl not tell, 
O'erniasteied by the mighty sjiell. 

Why is thy cheek so wan and wild, 
Sir Leoline ? Thy only child 
Ijies at thy feet, thy joy, thy piide, 
So fair, so innocent, so mild ; 
The same for whom thy lady died ! 
0, by the pangs of lier dear mother, 
Think thou no evil of thy child ! 
For her, and tliee, and for no other. 
She prayed tlie moment ere she died, — 
Prayed that the babe tbi- whom she died 
Miglit prove her dear lord's joy and jiride ! 
That prayer her deadly pangs beguiled. 

Sir Leoline ! 
And wouldst thou wrong thy only child. 

Her child and thine ? 

Within the Baron's heart and lirain, 
If thoughts like these had any share, 
They only swelled his rage and pain. 
And did but work confusion there. 
His heart was cleft with pain and rage, 
His cheeks they c[uivered, his eyes were 

wild. 
Dishonored thus in his old age ; 
Dishonored by his only child. 
And all his hospitality 
To the wronged daughter of his friend. 
By more than woman's jealousy 
Brought thus to a disgraceful end. — 
He rolled his eye with stern regard 
Upon the gentle minstrel bard. 
And said in tones abrui)t, austere, 
"Why, Bracy ! dost thou loiter here? 
I bade thee hence !" The bard obeyed; 
And turning fiom his own sweet maid. 
The aged knight, Sir Leoline, 
Led forth the Lady Geraldine ! 

THE CONCLUSION TO PART II. 

A LITTLE child, a limber elf, 
Singing, dancing to itself, 
A fairy thing with red nnind cheeks, 
That always finds, and never seeks. 
Makes such a vision to the sight 
As fills a father's eyes with light ; 
And pleasures flow in so thick and fast 
Upon his heart, that he at last 
Must needs express his love's excess 
Witli words of unmeant bitterness. 
Perhai>s 't is pretty to force together 
Thoughts so all unlike each other; 
To mutter and mock a broken charm. 
To dally with wrong that does no harm. 



Perhaps 't is tender too and pretty 
At each wild word to feel within 
A sweet recoil of love and l>ity. 
And what if in a world of sin 
(0 sorrow and shame, should this be true !) 
Such giddiness of heart and brain 
Comes seldom save from rage and pain, 
So talks as it 's most used to do. 



ROBERT SOUTHEY. 

[1774-1843.] 

STANZAS. 

!My days among the dead are passed ; 

Around me I behold. 
Where'er these ca.sual eyes are cast, 

The mighty minds of old ; 
My never-failing friends are they. 
With whom I converse day by day. 

With them I take delight in weal, 

And seek relief in woe ; 
And while I understand and feel 

How much to them I owe, 
My cheeks have often been bedewed 
With tears of thoughtful gratitude. 

My thoughts are with the dead ; with them 

I live in long-past yea is; 
Their virtues love, theii' faults condemn, 

Partake their hopes and fears. 
And from their lessons seek and find 
Instruction with an humble mind. 

My hopes are with tlie dead ; anon 
My jilace with them will be. 

And I with them shall travel on 
Through all futuiity : 

Yet leaving here a name, I tnist. 

That will not perish in the dust. 



THE INCHCAPE ROCK. 

No stir in the air, no stir in the sea, — 
The ship was as still as she could be ; 
Her sails from heaven received no motion. 
Her keel was steady in the ocean. 

Without either sign or sound of their shock 
The waves flowed over the Inchcape Rock ; 



118 



SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 



So little they rose, so little they fell, 
Tliey did not move the Inehcape Bell. 

The good old Abbot of Aberbrothok 
Had placed that bell on the Inchcape 

Rock ; 
On a buoy in the storm it floated and 

swung, 
And over the waves its warning rung. 

When the Rock was hid by the surges' 

swell, 
The mariners heard the warning bell ; 
And tlien they knew the perilous Rock, 
And blessed the Abbot of Aberbrothok. 

The sun in heaven was shining gay. 
All things were joyful on that day ; 
The sea-birds screamed as they wheeled 

around. 
And there was joyance in tlieir sound. 

The buoy of the Inchcape Bell was seen 
A darker speck on the ocean green ; 
Sir Ralph the Rover walked his deck, 
And he fixed his eye on the darker speck. 

I He felt the cheering power of spring. 
It made him whistle, it made him sing; 
His heart was mirthful to excess. 
But the Rover's mirth was wickedness. 

His eye was on the Inchcape float ; 
Quoth he, "My Tiien, put out the boat, 
And row me to the Inchcape Rock, 
And I'll plague the priest of Aberbro- 
thok." 

The boat is lowered, the boatmen I'ow, 
And to the Inchcape Rock they go ; 
Sir Ralph bent over from the boat, 
And he cut the bell from the Inchcape 
float. 

Down sank the bell, with a gurgling sound, 
The bubbles rose and burst around ; 
Quoth Sir Ralph, "The next who comes 

to the Kock 
Won't bless the Abbot of Aberbrothok." 

Sir Ralph the Rover sailed away. 
He scoured the seas for many a day ; 
And now, grown rich with plundered store, 
He steers his course for Scotland's shore. 

So thick a haze o'erspreads the sky 
They cannot see the sun on high ; 
The wind hath blown a gale all day. 
At evening it hath died away. 



On the deck the Rover takes his stand, 
So dark it is they see no land. 
Quoth Sir Ralph, "It will be lightersoon, 
For there is the dawn of the rising moon." 

"Canst hear," said one, "the breakers 

roar? 
Formethinks we should be near theshore ; 
Now where we are I cannot tell. 
But 1 wisli I could hear the 1 nchcape Bell. " 

They hear no sound, tlic swell is strong; 
Though the wind hath fallen, they drift 

along. 
Till the vessel strikes with a shivering 

shock : 
Cried they, "It is the Inchcape Rock!" 

Sir Ralph the Rover tore his hair, 
He cursed himself in his despair; 
The waves rush in on every side. 
The ship is sinking beneath the tide. 

But even in his dying fear 

One dreadful sound could tlie Rover hear, 

A sound as if with the Inchcape Bell 



BROUGH BELLS. 

One day to Helbeck I had strolled. 

Among the Crossfell Hills, 
And, resting in the rocky grove, 

Sat listening to the rills, — 

The while to their sweet undersong 
The birds sang blithe around. 

And the soft west-wind awoke the wood 
To an intermitting sound. 

Louder or fainter, as it rose 

Or died away, was borne 
The harmony of merry bells 

From Brough, that pleasant morn. 

"Why are the merry bells of Brough, 

My friend, so few?" said I ; 
"They disappoint the expectant ear. 

Which they should gratify. 

"One, two, three, four; one, two, three, 
four; 

'Tis still one, two, three, four: 
Mellow and silvery ai'e the tones ; 

But I wish the bells were more!" 



EGBERT SOUTHEY. 



119 



"What ! art thou critical ?" quoth he; 

"Eschew that heart's disease 
That secketli tor displeasure where 

The intent hath been to please. 

"By those four hells there hangs a tale, 

Which being told, 1 guess. 
Will make thee hear their scanty peal 

With proper thankiuhiess. 

"Not by the Cliffords were they given, 

Nor by the Tuitons' line ; 
Thou hearest in that peal the crune 

Of old John Brunskill's kine. 

"On Staneinoie's side, one summer eve, 

John Hrunskill sat to see 
His herds in yonder Borrodale 

Come winding up the lea. 

"Behind them, on the lowland's verge, 

In the evening light serene, 
Brough's silent tower, then newly built 

By Blenkinsop, was seen. 

"Slowly they came in long array. 

With loitering pace at will ; 
At times a low from them was heard. 

Far off, for all was still. 

"The hills returned that lonely sound 

Upon the tranriuil air: 
The only sound it was which then 

Awoke the echoes there. 

" 'Thou hear'st that lordly bull of mine. 
Neighbor,' quoth Brunskill then: 

'How loudly to the hills lie crunes. 
That crune to him again ! 

" 'Think' stthou if yon wholeherd at once 

Their voices should combine, 
Were they at B'ough, that we might not 
Hear plainly from this upland spot 
That cruning of the kine?' 

"'That were a crune, indeed,' replied 
His comrade, 'whicli, I ween. 

Might at tlie Spital well be heard, 
And in all dales between. 

"'Up Mallerstang to Eden's springs. 
The eastern wind upon its wings 

Tlie mighty voice would bear; 
And A})pieby would hear the sound, 

Methinks, when skies are fair.' 



'"Then shall the herd,' John Brunskill 
cried, 

'From yon dumb steei)le crune; 
And thou and I, on this hillside. 

Will listen to their tune. 

"'So, while the merry Bells of Brough 

For many an age ring on, 
Joliu Brunskill will remembered be. 

When he is dead and gone, 

" 'As one who, in his latter years. 

Contented with enough. 
Gave freely what he well could spare 

To buy the Bells of Brough. ' 

"Thus it hath proved: three hundred 
years 

Since then have passed away. 
And Brunskill's is a living name 

Among us to this day." 

"More pleasure," I replied, "shall I 
From this time forth partake, 

Wlien I remember Helbeck woods. 
For old John Brunskill's sake. 

"He knew how wholesome it would be, 
Among these wild, wide fells 

And upland vales, to catch, at times. 
The sound of Christian bells ; — 

"Wliat feelings and what impulses 

Their cadence might convey 
To herdsman or to shephe7'd-boy, 
Whiling in indolent employ 

The solitary day ; — 

"That, when his brethren were convened 

To meet for social prayer. 
He too, admonished by the call, 

In spirit might be there; — 

"Or when a glad thanksgiving sound. 

Upon the winds of heaven. 
Was sent to speak a nation's joy. 

For some great blessing given, — 

' ' For victory by sea or land. 

And happy peace at length ; 
Peace by his country's valor won. 

And stablished by her strength ; — 

"When such exultant peals were borne 

Upon the mountain air. 
The sound should stir his blood, and give 

An English impulse there." 



120 



SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES'. 



Such tlioiislits were in the old man'i 
luhiil, 

When he that eve looked down 
From Stuni'niore's side on Borrodale, 

And on the distant town. 

And had I store of wealth, methinks, 

Another herd of kine, 
John Brunskill, I would freely give, 

That they might ciune with thine. 



CHARLES LAMB. 

[1775- 1834] 

THE HOUSEKEEPER. 

The frugal snail, with forecast of repose, 

Carries his house with him where'er he 
goes ; 

Peeps out, — and if there comes a shower 
of rain, 

Retn^ats to his sinall domicile again. 

Toucli but a tip of him, a horn, — 'tis 
well,— 

He curls up in his sanctuary shell. 

He 's his own landlord, his own tenant ; 
stay 

Long as he will, he dreads no Quarter Day. 

Himself he boards and lodges ; both in- 
vites 

And feasts himself; sleeps with himself 
o' nights. 

He spares the upholsterer trouble to pro- 
cure 

Chattels; himself is his own furniture, 

And his sole riches. Wheresoe'er he 
roam, — 

Knock when you will, — he 's sure to be 
at home. 



THE OLD FAMILIAR FACES. 

I HAVE had playmates, I have had com- 
panions. 

In my days of childhood, in my joyful 
school-days ; 

All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. 

I have been laughing, I have been ca- 
rousing. 

Drinking late, sitting late, with my bos- 
om cronies ; 

All, all are gone, the old ftimiliar faces. 



I loved a love once, fairest among women ! 
Closed are her doors on me now, 1 nmst 

not see her, — 
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. 

I have a friend, a kinder friend has no 

man : 
Like an ingrate, I left my friend abruptly ; 
Left him, to muse on the old familiar 

faces. 

Ghost-like 1 paced round the haunts of 

my childhood. 
Earth seemed a desert I was bound to 

traverse. 
Seeking to find the old familiar faces. 

Friend of my bosom, thou more than a 

brother, 
Why weit not thou born in my father's 

dwelling? 
So might we talk of the old familiar faces, — 

How some they have died, and some they 

have left me, 
And some are taken from me ; all are 

de]iarted ; 
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. 



HESTER. 

When maidens such as Hester die, 
Their jilace ye may not well supply. 
Though ye among a thousand tiy, 
Witli vain endeavor. 

A month or more hath she been dead, 
Yet cannot I by force be led 
To think upon the wormy bed 
And her together. 

A springy motion in her gait, 
A rising step, did indicate 
Of pride and joy no common rate, 
That flushed her spirit. 

I know not by what name beside 
I .shall it call ; — if 't was not pride. 
It was a joj- to that allied, 
She did inheiit. 

Her parents held the Quaker rnle, 
Which doth the human feeling cool ; 
But she was trained in nature's school, 
Nature had blessed her. 

A waking eye, a prying mind, 

A heart that stirs, is hard to bind : 



JAMES 


HOGG. 121 


A hawk's keen sight ye cannot blind, 


THE RAPTURE OF KILMENY. 


Ye could not Hester. 






Bonny Kihneny gaed up the glen ; 


My sprightly neighbor, gone before 


But it wasna to meet Duneira's men. 


To that unknown and silent shore, 


Nor the i-osy monk of the isle to see. 


Shall we not meet, as heretofore. 


For Kilmeny was i)ure as jiure could be. 


Some summer morning, 


It was only to hear the yorlin sing. 




And pu' the cress-Howerround the spring ; 
The scarlet hip and the hindbeiiye, 


When from thy cheerful eyes a ray 


Hath struck a bliss upon the day, 


And the nut that hangs frae the hazel- 


A bliss that would not go away, 


tree ; 


A sweet forewarning ? 


For Kilmeny was pure as puie could be. 




Butlangmayher minny look o'er the wa', 


— ♦— 


And lang may she seek i' the green-wood 
shaw ; 




Lang the laird of Duneira blame. 


JAMES HOGG. 


And lang, lang greet, or Kilmeny come 
hame ! 


[1772-1835-] 






When many a day had come and fled. 


WHEN MAGGY GANGS AWAY. 


When grief grew calm, and hope was dead. 




When mass for Kilmeny's soul had been 


0, WHAT will a" the lads do 


sung, 


When Maggy gangs away ? 


When the bedesman had prayed, ai;d the 


0, what will a' the lads do 


dead-bell rung, 


When Maggy gangs away ? 


Late, late in a gloamin' when all was 


There 's no a heart in a' the glen 


still, 


That disna dread the day ; — 


When the fringe was red on the westlin' 


0, what will a' the lads do 


hill. 


When Maggy gangs away ? 


The wood was sere, the moon i' the wane. 




The reek 0' the cot hung over the plain. 


Young Jock has ta'en the hill for 't. 


Like a little wee cloud in the world its 


A waefu' wight is he ; 


lane; 


Poor Harry 's ta'en the bed for 't, 


When the ingle lowed with an eiry leme. 


An' laid him down to dee ; 


Late, late in the gloamin" Kilmeny came 


And Sandy's gane unto the kirk, 


hame ! 


And leaniin fast to pray ; — 




0, what will a' the lads do 


"Kilmeny, Kilmeny, where have you 


When Maggy gangs away ? 


been? 




Lang hae we sought baith holt and den, 


The young laird 0' the Lang Shaw 


By linn, by ford, by greenwood tree. 


Has drunk her health in wine ; 


Yet you are halesome and fair to see. 


The priest has said— in confidence — 


Where gat you that joup o'the lily sheen ? 


The lassie was divine ; 


That bonny snood 0' the birk sae green ? 


And that is niair in maiden's praise 


And these roses, the fairest that ever were 


Than onv priest should say; — 


seen ? 


P.ut 0, what will the lads do 


Kilmeny, Kilmeny, where have you 
been?" 


When Maggy gangs away? 


The wailing in our green glen 


Kilmeny looked up with a lovely grace, 
But nae smile was seen on Kilmeny's face ; 


That day will quaver high. 


'T will (iraw tlie redbreast frae the wood. 


As still was her look, and as still was 


The laverock frae the sky ; 


her e'e. 


The fairies frae their beds 0' dew 


As the stillness that lay on the emerant 


Will rise and join the lay, — 


lea, 


An' hey ! what a day 't will be 


Or the mist that sleeps on a waveless 


When Maggy gangs away ? 


sea. 



122 



SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 



For Kilmeny had boon she know not 

where, 
x\ikI Kilmeny had seen what she eouKl 

not deehiie. 
Kihneiiy had been wliere the eoek never 

crew, 
"Where the rain never fell, and the wind 

never blew ; 
But it seemed as the harp of the sky had 

ninj,'. 
And the airs of heaven played round lier 

tongue, 
"When she spake of the lovely forms she 

had seen. 
And a laud wlieiv sin had nevtT been, — 
A laud oi' love and a laud of lii,-ht, 
"Withouteu sun or uioou or night ; 
"Where the river swa'd a living stream, 
And the light a pure eelestiarbeaui : 
The land of visiou it would seem, 
A still, an everlasting dream. 
In yon green-wood there is a waik, 
And iu that waik there is a weue, 
Aud in that wene there is a niaike. 
That neither has Hesh, blood, nor bane ; 
Aud down in yon greeu-wood he walks 

his lane. 

In that green wene KilnuMiy lay. 
Her hosoui happed wi' the tloweretsgay ; 
But the air was soft, aiul the sileuee deep. 
Ami bonny Kihneny fell sound asleep ; 
She keud nae uiair, nor opened her e'e, 
Till waked by the hymns of a far eountrye. 
She awaked on a couch of the silk Sixe 

slim, 
All striped wi' the bars of the rainbow's 

rim : 
Aud lovely beings round were rife, 
^Vho erst had travelled mortal life ; 
And aye they smiled, aud 'g-an to speer, 
"What spirit has brought this mortal 

hei-e ?" 
They clasped her waist and her hands 

sae fair, 
They kissed her cheek, and they kerned 

her hair. 
And rouml came many a blooming fere. 
Saying, "Bonny Kilmeny, ye 're welcome 

heiv ! 

"0, would the fairest of mortal kind 
Aye keep the holy truths in mind. 
That kindred spirits their motions see, 
AVho watch their ways with anxious e'e. 
And grieve for the guilt of humanitye ! 
0, sweet to Heaven the maiden's prayer, | 



And the sigh that heaves a bosom sae fair ! 
And dear to Heaven the words of truth, 
Aud the praise of virtue frae beauty's 

mouth ! 
And dear to the viewless forms of air. 
The minds that kythe as the body lair! 
bonny Kiliueny ! free frae stain. 
If ever you seek the world again, — 
That world of sin, of soriow, and fear, — 
0, tell of the joys that are waiting here, 
And tell of tlu- signs you shallshortly see ; 
Of the times that are now, aiul the times 

that shall be." 

They lifted Kilmeny, they led her away, 
And she walked in the light of a sunless 

day : 
The sky was a dome of crystal bright, 
The fountain of vision, and fountain of 

light ; 
The emerald tields were of dazzling glow, 
.\ud the flowers of everlasting blow. 
Then dee]> in the stream her body they 

laid, 
That her youth and beauty never might 

fade ; 
And they smiled on heaven, when they 

saw her lie 
In the stream of life that wandered by. 
And she heard a song, she heard it sung. 
She kend not where ; but sae sweetly it 

rung. 
It fell on l>er ear like a dream of the 

morn : 
"0, blest be the day Kilmeny was born ! ~ 
Now shall the land of the spirits see, 
Now sliall it ken what a woman may be ! 
The sun that shiuesou the worldsae bright, 
A borrowed gleid of the fountain of light ; 
And the moon that sleeks the sky sae dun, 
Like a goiuien bow, or a beamless sun, 
Shall wear away, and be seen nae mair. 
And th(> angels shall miss them travelling 

the air. 
But lang, lang after baith night and day. 
When the sun and the world have elyed 

away ; 
When the sinner has gane to his waesome 

doom, 
Kilmeny shall smile iu eternal bloom!" 

Then Kilmeny begcred again to see 
The friends she had left in her own eoun- 
trye. 
To tell of the place where she had been, 
And the glories that lay in the laud un- 
seen : 




'They clasped her waist and her hands sae fair." — Page 



THOMAS MOORE. 



123 



To warn the living maidens fiiir, 
Tlie loved of Heaven, the spirits' care, 
That all whose minds unnieled remain 
Shall bloom in beauty when time is gane. 

With distant music, soft and deep, 
They luHed Kihneny sound asleep ; 
And wiien she awakened, she lay her lane, 
Alihappedwith llowersin the green-wood 

wene. 
"When seven long years were come and 

lied; 
When grief was calm, and hope was dead ; 
When scarce was remembered Kilmeny's 

name. 
Late, late in a gloamiu' Kilmeny came 

hame ! 
And 0, her beauty was fair to see, 
But still and steadfast was her e'e ! 
Such beauty bard may never declare, 
For tliriv was no pride nor jiassion there ; 
And tlic Milt ilcsire of maiden's cen 
In that mild face could never be seen. 
Her seymar was the lily flower. 
And her cheek the moss-rose in the shower, 
And her voice like the distant nielodye. 
That floats along the twilight sea. 
But she loved to raike the lanely glen. 
And keeped afar frae the haunts of 

men ; 
Her holy hymns unheard to sing, 
To suck the flowers, and drink the spring. 
But wherever her peaceful form apjieared, 
The wild beasts of the hill were cheered ; 
The wolf played blithely round the field, 
Ti)e lordly bison lowed and kneeled ; 
The dun deer wooed with manner bland. 
And cowered aneath her lily hand. 
And when at even the woodlands rung, 
Wlien hymns of other worlds she sung 
In ecstasy of sweet (hivotion, 
0, then the glen was all in motion ! 
Tlie wild beasts of the forest came, 
Broke from their bughts and faulds the 

tame, 
And goved around, charmed and amazed ; 
Even the dull cattle crooned and gazed, 
And murmured, and looked with anxious 

pain 
For something the mystery to explain. 
The buzzard came with the throstle-cock ; 
The corby left her houf in the rock ; 
The blackbird alang wi' the eagle Hew ; 
The hind came flipping o'er the dew ; 
The wolf and the kid their raike began, 
And the tod, and the lamb, and the 

leveret ran : 



The hawk and the hern attour them hung. 
And the merl and the mavis forhooyed 

their young; 
And all in a peaceful ring were hurled ; — 
It was like an eve in a sinless world ! 

When a month and a day had come and 

gane, 
Kilmeny sought the green-wood wene ; 
There laid her down on the leaves sae 

green, 
And Kilmeny on earth was never mair 

seen. 
But 0, the words that fell from her 

mouth 
Were words of wonder, and words of 

truth ! 
But all the land were in fear and dread. 
For they keiidna whetln-r she was living 

or dead. 
It wasna her hame, and she couldna re- 
main ; 
She left this world of sorrow and pain. 
And returned to the Land of Tiiought 



THOMAS MOOriE. 

[1779-1852.] 

FLY TO THE DESERT. 

Fly to the desert, fly with me. 
Our x\rab tents are rude for thee; 
But, 0, the choice what heart can douht, 
Of tents with love, or tlirones without? 

Our rocks are rough, but smiling there 
The acacia waves her yellow hair. 
Lonely and sweet, nor loved the less 
For flowering in a wilderness. 

Our sands are bare, but down their slope 
The silvery-footed antelope 
As gracefully and gayly springs 
As o'er the marble courts of kings. 

Then come, — thy Arab maid will be 
The loved and lone acacia-tree. 
The antelope, whose fest shall bless 
With their light sound thy loveliness. 

O, there are looks and tones that dart 
An instant sunshine through the heart. 
As if the soul that minute cauglit 
Some treasure it through life had sought ; 



124 



SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 



As if the very lips and eyes 
Predestined to have all our sighs, 
And never be Forgot again, 
Sparkled and spoke before us then ! 

So came thy every glance and tone. 
When first on me they breathed and 

shone ; 
New as if brought from other spheres, 
Yet welcome as if loved for years. 



THE MID HOUR OF NIGHT. 

At the mid hour of night, when stars 

are weeping, I fly 
To the lone vale we loved, when life 

shone warm in thine eye ; 
And I think oft, if spirits can steal from 

the regions of air, 
To revisit past scenes of delight, thou 

wilt come to me there. 
And tell me our love is remembered even 

in the sky ! 

Then I sing the wild song 't was once 

such pleasure to hear. 
When our voices, commingling, breathed 

like one on the ear ; 
And, as Echo far off through the vale 

my sad orison rolls, 
I think, O my love ! 't is thy voice, 

from the Kingdom of Souls, 
Faintly answering still the notes that 

once were so dear. 



THE VALE OF AVOCA. 

There is not in this wide world a valley 

so sweet 
As that vale, in whose bosom the bright 

waters meet ; 
0, the last ray of feeling and life must 

depart 
Ere the bloom of that valley shall fade 

from my heart ! 

Yet it was not that Nature had shed o'er 

the scene 
Her purest of crystal and brightest of 

green ; 
'T was not the soft magic of streamlet or 

hill, — 
0, no !- it was something more exquisite 

still. 



'T was that friends, the beloved of my 
bosom, were near. 

Who made every dear scene of enchant- 
ment more dear, 

And who felt how the best charms of 
nature improve. 

When we see them reflected from looks 
that we love. 

Sweet Vale of Avoca ! how calm could 
I rest 

In thy bosom of shade, with the friends 
I love best ; 

Where the storms that we feel in this 
cold world should cease. 

And our hearts, like thy waters, be min- 
gled in peace. 



O THOU WHO DRY'ST THE MOURN- 
ER'S TEAR. 

Thou who dry'st the mourner's tear ! 

How dark this world would Ijc, 
If, when deceived and wounded here. 

We could not fly to thee. 
The friends who in our sunshine live. 

When winter comes, are flown ; 
And he who has but tears to give 

Must wee]) those tears alone. 
But thou wilt heal that broken heart 

Which, like the plants that throw 
Their fragrance from the wounded part. 

Breathes sweetness out of woe. 

When joy no longer soothes or cheers, 

And e'en the hope that threw 
A moment's sparkle o'er our tears 

Is dimmed and vanished too, 
0, who would bear life's stormy doom. 

Did not thy wing of love 
Come, brightly wafting through thegloom 

Our peace-branch from above ? 
Then sorrow, touched by tliee, grows 
bright 

With more than rapture's ray ; 
As darkness shows us worlds of light 

We never saw by day ! 



THOU ART, O GOD I 

Thou art, God ! the life and light 
Of all this wondrous world we see.; 

Its glow by day, its smile by night. 
Are but reflections caught from thee. 



GEOKGE GORDON (LOKD BYRON). 



125 



Where'er we tura, thy glories shine, 
And all things fair and bright are thine. 

When day, with farewell beam, delays 
Among the opening clouds of even, 

And we can almost think we gaze 

Through golden vistas into heaven, — 

Those hues that make the sun's decline 

So soft, so radiant. Lord ! are thine. 

When night, with wings of starry gloom, 
O'ershadovvs all the earth and skies. 

Like some dark, beauteous bird, whose 
plume 
Is sparkling with unnumbered eyes, — 

That sacred gloom, those tires divine, 

So grand, so countless, Lord ! are thine. 

When youthful springaroundushreathes. 
Thy spirit warms lier fragrant sigh ; 

And every flower the summer wreathes 
Is born beneath that kindling eye. 

Where'er we turn, thy glories shine, 

And all things fair and bright are Thine. 



GEOEGE GORDON (LORD 
BYRON). 

[178S-1824.] 

SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY. 

She walks in beauty, like the niglit 
Of cloudless climes and starry skies. 

And all that 's best of dark and bright 
Meets in her aspect and her eyes, 

Thus mellowed to that tender light 
Which Heaven to gaudy day denies. 

One shade the more, one ray the less, 
Had half impaired the nameless grace 

Which waves in every raven tress, 
Or softly lightens o'er her face. 

Where thoughts serenely sweet express 
How pure, how dear their dwelling- 
place. 

And on that cheek and o'er that brow, 
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent. 

The smiles that win, the tints that glow, 
But tell of days in goodness spent, 

A mind at jjeace with all below, 
A heart whose love is innocent ! 



THE DESTRUCTION OP SENNACHERIB. 

The Assyrian came down like the wolf 

on the fold, 
And his cohorts were gleaming in purple 

and gold ; 
And the sheen of their .spears Avas like 

stars on the sea. 
When the blue wave rolls nightly on 

deep Galilee. 

Like the leaves of the forest when sum- 
mer is green, 

That host with their banners at sunset 
were seen ; 

Like the leaves of the forest when au- 
tumn hath blown. 

That host on the morrow lay withered 
and strown. 



For the Angel of Death spread his wings 

on the blast. 
And breathed in the face of the foe as he 

passed ; 
And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly 

and chill. 
And their hearts but once heaved, and 

forever grew still ! 

And there lay the steed Avith his nostrils 
all wide, 

But through them there rolled not the 
breath of his jiride : 

And the foam of his gasping lay white 
on the turf. 

And cold as the spray of the rock-beat- 
ing surf. 

And there lay the rider distorted and 
pale. 

With the dew on his brow and the rust 
on his mail ; 

And the tents were all silent, the ban- 
ners alone. 

The lances unlifted, the trumpet un- 
blown. 



And the widows of Ashur are loud in 

their wail. 
And the idols are broke in the tem2ile of 

Baal; 
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote 

by the sword. 
Hath melted like snow in the glance of 

the Lord ! 



126 



SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 



THE LAKE OF GEN-EVA. 

Ci.EAn, placid Leniaii ! thy contrasted 

lake, 
"With tlic wild world I dwelt in, is a 

thing 
Which warns me, with its stillness, to 

forsake 
Earth's troubled waters for a purer 

spring. 
This quiet sail is as a noiseless wing 
To waft me from distraction ; once I 

loved 
Torn ocean's roar, but thy soft mur- 
muring 
Sounds sweet as if a sister's voice 

rejirovcnl, 
That I with stern delights should e'er 

have been so moved. 

It is the hush of night, and all between 
Thy margin and the mountains, dusk, 

yet clear. 
Mellowed and mingling, yet distinctly 

seen, 
Save darkened Jura, whose captheights 

appear 
Precipitously steep ; and drawing near. 
There breathes a living fragrance from 

the shore. 
Of flowers yet fresh with childhood ; 

on the ear 
Drops the light drip of the suspended 

oar. 
Or chirps the grasshopper one good-night 

carol more : 

He is an evening reveller, who makes 
His life an infancy, and sings his lill ; 
At intervals, some bird from out the 

brakes 
Starts into voice a moment, then is 

still. 
There seems a floating whisper on the 

hill. 
But that is fancy, for the starlight dews 
All silently their tears of love instil, 
Weeping themselves away, till they 

infuse 
Deep into Nature's breast the spirit of 

her hues. 



MONT BLANC. 

Mont Bi.anc is the monarch of moun- 
tains ; 
They crowned him long ago 



On a throne of rocks, in a robe of clouds. 

With a diadem of snow. 
Around his waist are forests braced. 

The avalanche in his hand ; 
But ere it fall, that thundering ball 

Mubt pause for my command. 

The glacier's cold and restless mass 

Moves onward day by day; 
But 1 am he who bids it pass, 

Or with its ice delay. 
I am the spirit of the place. 

Could make the mountain bow 
And quiver to his oaverned liase, — 

And what with me wouldst Tlioa? 



THE IMMORTAL MIND. 

"WiiEX coldness wraps this sull'erinT; clay, 

All, whither strays the immortal mind? 
It cannot die, it cannot stay. 

But leaves its darkened dust behind. 
Then, unembodied, doth it trace 

By steps each planet's heavenly way? 
Or fill at once the realms of space, 

A thing of eyes, that all survey ? 

Eternal, boundless, undecaj^ed, 

A thought unseen, but seeing .all, 
All, all in earth or skies displayed. 

Shall it survey, shall it recall : 
Each fainter trace that memory holds 

So darkly of departed years. 
In one broad glance the soul beholds, 

And all that was at once appears. 

Before creation peopled earth, 

Its eyes shall roll through chaos back ; 
And where the farthest heaven had birth. 

The spirit trace its rising track. 
And where the future mars or nuikes. 

Its glance dilate o'er all to be. 
While sun is quenched or system breaks, 

Fixed in its own eternity. 

Above or love, hope, hate, or fear. 
It lives all passionless and pure : 

An age shall fleet like earthly year ; 
Its years as moments shall endure. 

Away, away, without a wing, 

O'er all, through all, its thoughts shall 

fly,- 

A nameless and eternal thing. 
Forgetting what it was to die. 




The sun is warm, 



LLEAK."— Page 127 



PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 



127 



PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 
[1792 -1822.] 

STANZAS WRITTEN IN DEJECTION 
NEAR NAPLES. 

TnE sun is warm, the sky is clear, 
Tlie waves are dancing fast and bright, 
Bhie isles and snowy mountains wear 
The purple noon's transparent light : 
The breath of the moist air is liglit 
Around its unex])anded buds ; 
Like many a voice of one delight, — 
The winds', the birds', the ocean- 
floods', — 
The City's voice itself is soft like Soli- 
tude's. 



I see the Deep's untrampled floor 
"With green and purple sea-weeds 

strown ; 
I see the waves upon the shore 
Like light dissolved in star-showers 

thrown : 
I sit upon the sands alone ; 
The lightning of the noontide ocean 
Ls flashing round nie, and a tone 
Arises from its measured motion, — 
How sweet, did any heart now share in 

my emotion ! 

Alas ! I have nor hope nor health, 
Kor peace within nor calm around, 
Nor that content sui-passing wealth 
The sage in meditation found. 
And walked with inward glory 

crowned, — 
Xor fame, nor power, nor love, nor 

leisure ; 
Others 1 see whom these surround, — 
Smiling theylive, and call life pleasure ; 
To me that cup has been dealt in another 

measure. 



Yet now despair itself is mild 
Even as the winds and waters are ; 
I could lie down like a tired child. 
And weep away the life of care 
Which 1 have borne, and yet must bear, 
Till death like sleep might steal on me. 
And I might feel in the warm air 
!My cheek gi-ow cold, and hear the sea 
Breathe o'er my dying brain its last mo- 
notony. 



TO A SKYLARK. 

Hail to thee, blithe sj.irit ! 

Bird thou never wert, 
That from heaven, or near it, 

Pourest thy full heart 
in profuse strains of unpremeditated art. 

Higher still and higher 

From the earth thou springest 
Like a cloud of fire ; 

The blue deep thou wingest. 
And singing still dost soar, and soaring 
ever singest. 

In the golden lightning 

Of the sunken sun 
O'er which clouds are brightening. 
Thou dost float and nin. 
Like an unbodied joy whose race is just 
begun. 



The pale purple even 

Melts around thy flight ; 
Like a star of heaven, 
In the broad daylight 
Thou art unseen, but yet 1 hear thy shrill 
delight. 

Keen as are the arrows 

Of that silver sphere, 
"Whose intense lamp narrows 

In the white dawn clear 
Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there. 

All the earth and air 

With thy voice is loud, 
As, when night is bare. 
From one lonely cloud 
The moon rains out her beams, and heaven 
is overflowed. 

What thou art we know not ; 

What is most like thee ? 
From rainbow clouds there flow not 
Drops so bright to see 
As from thy presence showers a rain of 
melody. 

Like a poet hidden 

In the light of thought, 
Singing hymns unbidden. 
Till the world is wrought 
To sympathy with hopes and fears it 
heeded not ; 



128 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 


Like a high-born maiden 


Waking or asleep. 


In a palace tower, 


Thou of death must deem 


Soothing her love-laden 


Things more true and deep 


Sonl in secret hour 


Tiian we mortals dream, 


With music sweet as love, which overflows 


Or how could thy notes flow in such a 


her bower ; 


crystal stream? 


Like a glow-worm golden 


We look before and after. 


In a dfU of dew, 


And pine for what is not : 


Scattering un beholden 


Our sincerest laughter 


Its aerial hue 


With some pain is fraught ; 


Among the flowers and grass, which screen 


Our sweetest songs are those that tell of 


it from the view ; 


saddest thought. 


Like a rose embowered 


Yet if we could scorn 


In its own gieen leaves. 


Hate and pride and fear ; 


Bv warm winds deflowered, 


If we were things born 


'Till the srcnt it gives 


Not to shed a tear, 


Makes faint with too much sweet these 


I know not how thy joy we ever should 


heavy-winged thieves. 


come near. 


Sound of vernal showers 


Better than all measures 


On the twinkling grass, 
Rain-awakened flowers. 


Of delightful sound, 


Better than all treasures 


All that ever was 


That in books are found. 


Joj'ous and clear and fresh thy m\isic 


Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of 


doth surpass. 


the ground ! 


Teach us, sprite or bird, 


Teach me half the gladness 


What sweet thoughts are thine! 


That thy brain must know 


I have never heard 


Such harmonious madness 


Praise of love or wine 


From my lips would flow. 
The world should listen then, as I am 


That panted forth a flood of rapture so 


divine. 


listening now ! 


Chorus hymeneal 





Or triumphal chant 


ONE WORD IS TOO OFTEN PROFANED. 


Mati'hed with thine, would be all 




But an empty vaunt, — 


One word is too often profaned 


A thing wherein we feel there is some 


For me to profane it, 


hitklen want. 


One feeling too falsely disdained 




For thee to disdain" it. 


What objects are the fountains 


One hope is too like despair 


^Of tliy happy strain 1 


For ])rudence to smother. 


What fields, or waves, or mountains ? 


And pity from thee is more dear 


What shapes of sky or plain ? 
What love of thine own kind ? what igno- 


Than that from another. 




rance of pain ? 


I can give not what men call love ; 




But wilt thou accept not 


With thy clear, keen joyance 


The worship the heart lifts above, 


Languor cannot be ; 


And the heavens reject not, — 


Shadow of annoyance 


The desire of the moth for the star, 


Never came near thee : 


Of the night for the morrow, 


Thou lovest, but ne'er knew love's sad 


The devotion to something afar 


satiety. 


From the sphere of our sorrow ? 



JOHN KEATS. 



129 



JOHN KEATS. 

[1796-1821.] 

THE EVE OF SAINT AGNES. 

Saint Agnes' Eve, — ah, Inttcr cliill it 

was ! 
Tlic owl, for all Lis feathers, was a-cold ; 
The han; limped trembling through 

the frozen grass. 
And silent was the flock in woolly fold : 
Numb were tlie beadsman's lingers 

while he told 
His rf)sary, and whilcliis frosted breath, 
Like jiious imciisi! from a censer old, 
Seenicil taking Might for heaven with- 
out a death, 
Past the sweet virgin's picture, wliile liis 
prayer he saith. 

His prayer he saith, this patient, holy 

man ; 
Then takes his lamp, and riseth from 

his knees. 
And back returneth, meagre, barefoot, 

wan. 
Along the chapel aisle by slow degrees : 
The sculptui'ed dead, on each side, 

seem to freeze. 
Imprisoned in black, purgatorial rails : 
Knights, ladies, praying in dumb ora- 

t'ries. 
He passeth by ; and his weak spirit fails 
To think how they may ache in icy hoods 

and mails. 

Northward he turneth through a little 

door. 
And scarce three steps, ere music's 

golden tongue 
Flattered to tears this aged man and 

poor; 
But no, — already had his death-bell 

rung ; 
The joys of all his life were said and 

sung ; 
His was harsh penance on Saint Agnes' 

Eve: 
Another way he went, and soon among 
Hough ashes sat he for hissoul 's rcjirie ve, 
And all niglit kept awake, for sinners' 

sake to grieve. 

That ancient beadsman heard the prel- 
ude soft ; 

And so it chanced, for many a door 
was wide, 



From hurry to and fro. Soon, up aloft. 
The silver, snarling trumpets 'gan to 

chide ; 
The level chambers, ready with their 

pride. 
Were glowing to receive a thousand 

guests ; 
The carved angels, ever eager-eyed. 
Stared, where upon their heads the 

corruce rests. 
With hair blown back, and wings put 

crosswise on their breasts. 

At length burst in the argent revelry, 
With plume, tiara, and all lich array. 
Numerous as shadows haiuiting faiiily 
The brain, new stull'ed in youth with 

triumphs gay 
Of old romance. These let us wish 

away. 
And turn, sole-thoughted, to one lady 

there, 
Whose heart had brooded, all that 

wintry day. 
On love, and winged Saint Agnes' saint- 
ly care. 
As she had heard old dames full many 
times declare. 

They told her how, upon Saint Agnes' 

Eve, 
Young virgins might have visions of 

delight, 
And soft adorings from their loves re- 

ceive 
Upon the honeyed middle of the night, 
If ceremonies due they did aright; 
As, supperless to bed they must re- 
tire. 
And couch supine their beauties, lily 

white ; 
Nor look behind, nor sideways, but 

require 
Of Heaven with upward eyes for all that 

they desire. 

Full of this whim was thoughtful 

Madeline : 
The music, yearning like a god in pain, 
She scarcely heard; her maiden eyes 

divine. 
Fixed on the floor, saw many a sweep- 
ing train 
Pass by, — she heeded not at all : in vain 
Came many a tiptoe, amorous cavalier. 
And Imck retired ; not cooled by high 
disdain. 



130 



SONGS OF TllKKE CEXTUKIES. 



But she saw not ; her heart was othor- 
wlioix' ; 
She sighed for Agiu's' dreams, the sweet - 
""est of the year. 

She danced along with vague, reg-ard- 

h>ss eyes. 
Anxious her lips, her breathing quiek 

and short : 
The hallowed hour was near at hand : 

she sighs 
Amid the timbrels, and the thronged 

resort 
Of whispers, or in anger or in sport ; 
Mid looks of love, detiance, hate, and 

seorn, 
Hoodwinked with fairy fancy ; all amort. 
Save to Saint Agnes, and her lambs 

nnshorn, 
And all the bliss to be before to-morrow 

morn. 

So, purposing each moment to retire, 
She lingered still. Meantime, across 

the mooi-s. 
Had come young Porphyro, with heart 

on lire 
For Madeline. Beside the portal doors. 
Buttressed from moonlight, stands he, 

and implores 
All saints to give him sight of Made- 
line, 
Butforonemomentinthetedionshonrs, 
Tliat he might givze and worship all 
unseen ; 
Perchance speak, kneel, touch, kiss, — in 
sooth, such things have been. 

He ventures in : let no buzzed whisper 

tell ; 
All eyes be muffled, orahundred swords 
Will storm his heart, love's feverous 

citadel. 
For him, those chambers held barbarian 

hoixles, 
Hyena foemen, and hot-blooded lords, 
"Whose very dogs ^Y0uld execrations 

howl 
Agiiinst his lineage; not one breast 

a fiords 
Him any mercy, in that mansion foul, 
Save one old beldame, weak in body and 

in soul. 

Ah, happy chance ! the aged creature 
came, " j 

Shuffling along with ivory - headed 
wand, " ! 



To where he stood, hid from the torch's 

Hame, 
Behind a broad hall-pillar, fiir lx\vond 
The sound of merriment and chorus 

bland. 
He startled her; but soon she knew 

his face, 
And grasped his fingers in her palsied 

hand, 
Saying, "Mercy, Porphyro ! hie thee 

from this place ; 
They are all here to-night, the whole 

bloodthirsty race ! 

"Get hence ! oret hence ! there 's dwarf- 
ish Hildehrand ; 

He had a fever late, and in the fit 

He cursed thee and thine, both house 
and land : 

Then there s that old Lord ilaurice, 
not a whit 

More tame for his gray hairs — Alas 
me ! Hit '. 

Flit like a ghost away. " — "Ah ! gossip 
dear, 

"We 're safe enough ; here in this arm- 
chair sit, 

And tell me how" — "Good saints! 
not here, not here ; 
Follow me, child, or else these stones will 
be thy bier." 

He followed through a lowly arched 

way. 
Brushing the cobwebs with his lofty 

plume, 
And as she muttered ""Well-a — wcll- 

a-day!" 
He found him in a little moonlit room, 
Pale, latticed, chill, andsilentasatomb. 
"Now tell me where is Madeline," 

said he, 
" 0, tell me, Angela, by the holy loom 
AVhich none but secret sisterhood may 

see, 
When they Saint Agnes' wool are weaving 

piously." 

"Saint Agnes ! Ah ! it is Saint Agnes' 

Eve, — 
Yet men will murder upon holy days ; 
Thou must hold waterinawitch'ssicve. 
And be liege-lord of all the elves and 

fays. 
To venture so: it fills me with amaz" 
To see thee, Porphyro I — Saint Agnes' 

Eve! 



JOHN KEATS. 



131 



God's help! my lady fair the conjurer 
plays 

This very night ; good angels her de- 
ceive ! 
But let rne laugh awhile, I 've mickle 
time to giieve." 

Feebly she laugheth in the languid 
moon, 

While Poiphyroupon her face dothlook, 

Like puzzled urchin on an aged crone 

Who keepeth closed a wondrous liddle- 
Vjook, 

As spectacled she sits in chimney-nook. 

But soon his eyes grew brilliant, when 
she told 

His lady's purpose ; and he scarce could 
brook 

Tears, at the thought of those enchant- 
ments cold, 
And Madeline asleep in lap of legends old. 

Sudden a thought came like a full- 
blown rose. 

Flushing his brow, and in his pained 
hi-art 

Made puqjle riot; then doth he pro- 
pose 

A stratagem, that makes the beldame 
start : 

"A cruel man and impious thou art! 

Sweet lady, let her pray, and sleep, and 
dream 

Alone with her good angels, far apart 

From wicked men like thee. Go, go ! 
— I deem 
Thou canst not surely be the same that 
thou didst seem." 

"I will not hann her, by all saints I 

swear!" 
Quoth Porphyro ; "0, may I ne'er find 

grace. 
When my weak voice shall whisper its 

last prayer. 
If one of her soft ringlets I displace. 
Or look with ruffian passion in her face : 
Good Angela, believe me by these tears ; 
Or I will, even in a moment's space, 
Awake, with horrid shout, my foemen's 

ears, 
And beard them, though they be more 

fanged than wolves and bears." 

"Ah! why wilt thou affright a feeble 
soul? 

A poor, weak, palsy-stricken, church- 
yard thing, 



Whose passing-bell may ere the miil- 
night toll ; 

Whose prayers for thee, each mom and 
evening. 

Were never missed." Thus plaining, 
doth she bring 

A gentler speech from burning Por- 
phyro ; 

So woful, and of such deep sonowing, 

That Angela gives promise slie will do 
Whatever he shall wish, betide her weal 
or woe. 

Which was to lead him, in close secrecy. 
Even to Madeline's chamber, and there 

hide 
Him in a closet, of such privacy 
That he might see her beauty unespied, 
And win perhaps that night a peerless 

bride, 
While legioned fairies paced the cover- 
let. 
And pale enchantment held her sleepy- 
eyed. 
Never on such a night have lovers met, 
Since Merlin paid his demon all the 
monstrous debt. 

"It shall be as thou wishest," said the 

dame : 
"All cates and dainties shall be stoied 

there 
Quickly on this feast-night : Vjy the 

tambour frame 
Her own lute thou wilt see ; no time 

to spare, 
For I am slow and feeble, and scarce dare 
On such a catering trust my dizzy head. 
Wait here, my child, with patience ; 

kneel in prayer 
The while. Ah I thou must needs the 

lady wed, 
Or may I never leave my grave among 

the dead." 

So saying, she hobbled off with busy 

fear. 
The lover's endless minutes slowly 

passed : 
The dame returned, and whispered in 

his ear 
To follow her ; with aged eyes aghast 
From fright of dim espial. Safe at last. 
Through many a dusky gallery, they 

gain 
The maiden's chamber, silken, hushed, 

and chaste ; 



132 



SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 



Where Porphyro took covert, pleased 
amain. 
His poor guide hurried back with agues 
in her brain. 

Her faltering hand upon the balus- 
trade, 

Old Angela was feeling for the stair, 

When Madeline, Saint Agnes' charmed 
maid, 

Rose, like a missioned sjiirit, unaware ; 

With silver taper's light, and pious 
care. 

She turned, and down the aged gossip 
led 

To a safe level matting. Now prepare, 

Young Porphyro, for gazing on that 
bed ! 
She comes, she comes again, like ring- 
dove frayed and tied. 

Out went the taper as she hurried in. 
Its little smoke in pallid moonshine 

died : 
She closed the door, she panted, all akin 
To spirits of the air, and visions wide : 
No uttered syllable, or, woe beti<le ! 
But to her heart, her heart was voluble, 
Paining with eloquence her balmy 

side ; 
As though a tongueless nightingale 

should swell 
Her throat in vain, and die, heart-stitled, 

in her dell. 

A casement high and triple-arched 

there was, 
All garlanded with carven imageries 
Of fruits, and flowers, and bunches of 

knot-grass. 
And diamonded with panes of quaint 

device. 
Innumerable of stains and splendid 

dyes 
As are the tiger-moth's deep-damasked 

wings ; 
And in the midst, 'raong thousand 

heraldries. 
And twilight saints, and dim embla- 

zonings, 
A shielded scutcheon blushed with blood 

of queens and kings. 

Full on this casement shone the win- 
try moon. 

And threw warm gules on Madeline's 
fair breast. 



As down she knelt for heaven's grace 

and boon : 
Kose-bloom fell on her hands, together 

prest. 
And on her silver cross soft amethyst. 
And on her hair a glory, like a 

saint : 
She seemed a splendid angel, newly 

drest. 
Save wings, for heaven: — Porphyro 

grew faint : 
She knelt, so pure a thing, so free from 

mortal taint. 

Anon his heart revives : her vespers 

done. 
Of all its wreathed pearls her hair she 

frees ; 
Unclasps her warmed jewels one by 

one; 
Loosens her fragrant bodice; by de-v 

grees 
Her rich attire creeps rustling to her 

knees: 
Half hidden, like a mermaid in sea- 
weed. 
Pensive awhile she dreams awake, and 

sees. 
In fancy, fair Saint Agnes in her bed. 
But dares not look beiiind, or all the 

charm is fled. 

Soon, trembling in her soft and chilly 

nest 
In sort of wakeful swoon, perplexed 

she lay, 
Until the poppied warmth of sleep 

oppressed 
Her soothed limbs, and soul fatigued 

away ; 
Flown, like a thought, until the mor- 
row-day ; 
Blissfully havened both from joy and 

pain ; 
Clasped like a missal where swart 

Paynims pray ; 
Blinded alike from sunshine and from 

rain. 
As though a rose should shut, and be a 

bud again. 

Stolen to this paradise, and so en- 
tranced, 
Porphyro gazed upon her empty dress, 
And listened to her breathing, if it 
chanced 
To wake into a slumberous tenderness ; 



JOHN KEATS. 



133 



Which when he heard, that minute 

did he bless, 
And breathed himself: then from the 

closet crept, 
I^oiseless as fear in a wide wilderness. 
And over the hushed carpet, silent, 

stept. 
And 'tween the curtains peeped, where, 

lo ! — how fast she slept. 

Then by the bedside, where the faded 
moon 

Made a dim, silver twilight, soft he set 

A table, and, half anguished, threw 
thereon 

A cloth of woven crimson, gold, and 
jet:- 

for some drowsy Morphean amulet ! 

The boisterous, midnight, festive clar- 
ion. 

The kettle-drum, and far-heard clar- 
ionet, 

Affray his ears, though but in dying 
tone : — 
The hall-door shuts again, and all the 
noise is gone. 

And still she slept an azure-lidded 

sleep, 
In blanched linen, smooth, and laven- 

dered, 
While he from forth the closet brought 

a heap 
Of candied apple, quince, and plum, 

and gourd ; 
With jellies soother than the creamy 

curd, 
And lucid syrops, tinct with cinna- 
mon; 
Manna and dates, in argosy transferred 
From Fez ; and spiced dainties, every 

one, 
From silken Samarcand to cedared Leb- 



These delicates he heaped with glow- 
ing hand 

On golden dishes and in baskets bright 

Of wreathed silver: sumptuous they 
stand 

In the retired quiet of the night. 

Filling the chilly room with perfume 
light.- 

"And now, my love, my seraph fair, 
awake ! 

Thou art my heaven, and I thine 
eremite ; 



Open thine eyes, for meek Saint Agnes' 
sake. 
Or I shall drowse beside thee, so my soul 
doth ache." 

Thus whispering, his warm, unnerved 

arm 
Sank in her pillow. Shaded was her 

dream 
By the dusk curtains : — 't was a mid- 
night charm 
Impossible to melt as iced stream : 
The lustrous salvers in the moonlight 

gleam ; 
Broad golden fringe upon the carpet lies : 
It seemed he never, never could redeem 
From such a steadfast spell his lady's 
eyes ; 
So mused awhile, entoiled in woofed fan- 
tasies. 

Awakening up, he took her hollow 

lute,— 
Tumultuous, — and, in chords that ten- 

derest be. 
He played an ancient ditty, long since 

mute. 
In Provence called, "La belle dame 

sans mercy"; 
Close to her ear touching the melody : 
Wherewith disturbed, she uttered a 

soft moan ; 
He ceased — she panted quick — and 

suddenly 
Her blue affrayed eyes wide open shone : 
Upon his knees he sank, pale as smooth- 
sculptured stone. 

Hereyes were open, but she still beheld. 
Now wide awake, the vision of her sleep : 
There was a painful change, that nigh 

expelled 
The blisses of her dream so pure and 

deep ; 
At which fair Madeline began to weep. 
And moan forth witless words with 

many a sigh ; 
While still her gaze on Porphyro would 

keep. 
Who knelt, with joined hands and 

piteous eye, 
Fearing to move or speak, she looked so 

dreamingly. 

"Ah, Porjihyro !" said she, "but even 

now 
Thy voice was at sweet tremble in mine 

ear, 



134 



SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 



Made tunable with every sweetest vow ; 

And those sad eyes were spiritual and 
clear ; 

How changed thou art ! how pallid, 
chill, and drear ! 

Giveme that voice again, my Porphyro, 

Those looks immortal, those complain- 
ings dear ! 

0, leave me not in this eternal woe. 
For if thou diest, my love, I know not 
where to go." 

Beyond a mortal man impassioned far 
At these voluptuous accents, he arose. 
Ethereal, flushed, and like a throbbing 

star 
Seen mid the sapphire heaven's deep 

repose ; 
Into her dream he melted, as the rose 
Blendeth its odor with the violet, — 
Solution sweet : meantime the frost- 
wind blows 
Like love's alarum pattering the sharp 
sleet 
Against the window-panes ; Saint Agnes' 
moon hath set. 

'T is dark : quick pattereth the flaw- 
blown sleet : 

"This is no dream, my bride, my Mad- 
eline !" 

'Tis dark: the iced gusts still rave 
and beat : 

"No dream, alas ! alas ! and woe is mine ! 

Porphyro will leave me here to fade 
and pine. — 

Cruel ! what traitor could thee hither 
bring ? 

I curse not, formy heart is lost in thine, 

Though thou forsakestadeceived thing; 
A dove forlorn and lost, with sick, un- 
pruned wing. " 

"My Madeline! sweet dreamer ! lovely 

bride ! 
Say, may I be for aye thy vassal blest ? 
Thy beauty's shield, heart-shaped and 

vermeil dyed ? 
Ah, silver shrine, here will I take my 

rest 
After so many hours of toil and quest, 
A famished pilgrim, — saved by miracle. 
Though I have found, I will not rob 

thy nest 
Savingof thy sweet self; ifthouthink'st 

well 
To trust, fair Madeline, to no rude infidel." 



"Hark ! 't is an elfin-storm from fairy- 

land. 
Of haggard seeming, but a boon indeed : 
Arise, — arise ! the morning is at hand ; 
The bloated wassailers will never heed : 
Let us away, my love, with happy 

speed ; 
There are no ears to hear, or eyes to 

see. 
Drowned all in Rhenish and the sleepy 

mead ; 
Awake ! arise ! my love, and fearless be, 
For o'er the soutliern moors I have a 

home for thee." 

She hurried at his words, beset vvith 

fears. 
For there were sleeping dragons all 

around. 
At glaring watch, perhaps, with ready 

speai-s, — 
Down the wide stairs a dai'kling way 

they found, — 
Li all the house was heard no human 

sound. 
A chain-dropped lamp was flickering 

by each door ; 
The arras, i-ich with horseman, hawk, 

and hound. 
Fluttered in the besieging wind's up- 
roar. 
And the long carpets rose along the gusty 

floor. 

They glide, like phantoms, into the 

wide hall ; 
Like phantoms to the iron ])orch they 

glide. 
Where lay the porter, in uneasy sprawl, 
"With a huge empty flagon by his 

side : 
The wakeful bloodhound rose, and 

shook his hide. 
Rut his sagacious eye an inmate owns : 
By one, and one, the bolts full easy 

slide ; 
The chains lie silent on the foot-worn 

stones ; 
The key turns, and the door upon its 

hinges groans. 

And they are gone : ay, ages long ago 
These lovers fled away into the storm. 
That night the baron dreamt of many 

a woe, 
And all his warrior-guests, with shade 

and form 



JAMES MONTGOMERY. 



135 



Of witch, and demon, and large coffin- 
worm, 

Were long be-nightmared. Angela 
the old, 

Died palsy-twitched, with meagre face 
deform. 

The beadsman, after thousand aves 
told, 
For aye unsought-for slept among his 
ashes cold. 



JAMES MONTGOMERY. 

[1771-1854.] 

THE COMMON LOT. 

Once, in the flight of ages past, 

There lived a man ; and who was he? 

Mortal ! howe'er thy lot be cast, 
That man resembled thee. 

Unknown the region of his birth, 

The land in which he died unknown ; 

His name has perished from the earth, 
This truth survives alone : 

That joy, and grief, and hope, and fear. 
Alternate triumphed in his bicast ; 

His bliss and woe, — a smile, a tear! 
Oblivion hides the rest. 

He suffered, — but his pangs are o'er; 

Enjoyed, — but his delights are fled ; 
Had friends, — his friends are now no 
more ; 

And foes, — his foes are dead. 

He saw whatever thou hast seen ; 

Encountered all that troubles thee : 
He was — whatever thou hast been; 

He is — what thou shalt be. 

The rolling seasons, day and night, 
Sun, moon, and stars, the earth and 
main, 

Erewhile his portion, life, and light. 
To him e.xist in vain. 

The clouds and sunbeams, o'er his eye 
That once their shades and glory threw. 

Have left in yonder silent sky 
No vestige where they flew. 



The annals of the human race. 

Their iiiins, since the world began, 

Of him aflbrd no otlier trace 
Tlian this, — there lived a man ! 



FOREVER WITH THE LORD. 

Forever with the Lord ! 
Amen ! so let it be ! 
Life from the dead is in that word. 
And inmiortality. 



Here in the body pent. 
Absent from Him I roam. 
Yet nightly pitch my moving tent 
A day's march nearer home. 

My Father's hoi;se on high, 
Home of my soul ! how n.^ar. 
At times, to fiuth's foreseeing eye 
Thy golden gates appear ! 

Ah ! then my sjiirit faints 
To reach the land 1 love, 
The bright inheritance of saints, 
Jerusalem above ! 

Yet clouds will intervene, 
And all my pro.'<])cct flies ; 
Like Noah's dove, 1 flit between 
Rough seas and stormy skies. 

Anon the clouds depart, 
The winds and waters cease ; 
While sweetly o'er Jiiy gladdened heart 
Expands the bow of peace ! 

Beneath its glowing arch, 
Along the hallowed ground, 
I see cherubic armies march, 
A camp of fire around. 

I hear at morn and even, 
At noon and midnight hour, 
The choral harmonies of heaven 
Earth's Babel tongues o'erpower. 

Then, then I feel that He, 
Remembered or forgot. 
The Lord, is never far from me. 
Though I perceive him not. 



136 



SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 



In darkness as in light, 
Hidden alike from view, 
I sleep, 1 wake, as in his sight 
Who looks all nature through. 

All that I am, have been. 
All that I yet nmy he. 
He sees at onee, as he hath seen, 
And shall forever see. 



"Forever with the Lord": 
Father, if 'tistliv will. 
The promise of that faithful word 
Unto thv child fultil ! 



So, when my latest lireath 
Shall rend the veil in twain, 
By deatli 1 shall escape from death, 
And life eternal gain. 



PRAYER. 

Prayer is the soul's sincere desire 

Uttered or unexpressed. 
The motion of a hidilen tire 

That trembles in the breast. 

Prayer is the burden of a sigh. 

The falling of a tear ; 
The upward glancing of an eye, 

When none but God is near. 

Prayer is the simplest form of speech 

That infant lips can try; 
Praver the sublimest strains that reach 

The Majesty on high. 

Prayer is the Christian's vital breath. 

The Christian's native air; 
His watchword at the gates of death : 

He enters lieaven by prayer. 

Prayer is the contrite sinner's voice 

Returning from his ways ; 
While angels in tlieir songs rejoice, 

And say, " Behold he prays !" 

Thou, by whom we eome to God, 
The Life, the Truth, the Way, 

The path of ])rayer thyself liast trod : 
Lord, teach us how to pray ! 



HELEN MARIA WILLIAMS. 

[1762- 1S27.] 

WHILST THEE I SEEK. 

Whilst Thee I seek, protecting Power, 

lie my vain wishes stilled ! 
And may this consecrated hour 

With "better hojjcs be tilled. 

Thy love the power of tliought bestowed ; 

I'o thee my thoughts would soar: 
Thy mercy o'er my life has llowed. 

That mercy 1 adore. 

In each event of life, how clear 

Thy ruling hand I see ! 
Each blessing to my soul more dear. 

Because conferred by thee. 

In every joy that crowns my daj's. 

In every pain I bear. 
My heart shall find delight in jjraise. 

Or seek relief in prayer. 

When gladness wings mv favored hour, 
Thy love my thoughts shall fill ; 

Resigned, when storms of sorrow lower, 
My soul shall meet thy will. 

My lifted eye, without a tear, 
The gathering storm shall see; 

My steadfast heart shall know no fear; 
That heart shall rest on thee. 



UNKNOWN. 

THERE WAS SILENCE IN HEAVEN. 

Cax angel spirits need rejiose 
In the full sunlight of the sky? 

And can the veil of slumber close 
A cherub's bright and blazing ej'e ? 

Have seraphim a weary brow, 

A fainting heait, an aidiing breast? 

No, far too high their ]>ulses flow 
To languish with inglorious rest. 

0, not the death-like calm of sleep 
Could hush the everlasting song ; 

No fairy dream or slumber dee]> 
Entrance the rapt and holy throng. 



JOHN QUINCY ADAMS. — WALTER SAVAGE LAXDOR. 



137 



Yet not the liglitest tone was heard 
Fiom angel voice or angel hand ; 

And not one plumed iiinion stirred 
Among the pure and blissful band. 

For theie was silence in the sky, 
A joy not angel tongues could tell, 

As from its mystic fount on high 
The peace of God in stillness fell. 

O, what is silence here below ? 

The fruit of a concealed despair; 
The pause of pain, the dream of woe ; — 

It is the rest of rapture there. 

And to the wayworn pilgrim here, 

More kindred seems that perfect peace. 

Than the full chants of joy to hear 
Koll on, and never, never cease. 

From earthly agonies set free, 

Tired with the path too slowly trod, 

May such a silence wel(;oine me 
Into the palace of my God. 



JOHN QUINCY ADAMS. 

[U. S. A., 1767-1848.] 

TO A BEREAVED MOTHER. 

Sure, to the mansions of the blest 

When infimt innocence ascends. 
Some angel, bnghter than the rest, 

The sj)otless s])irit's flight attends. 
On wings of ecstasy they rise, 

Beyond where worlds material roll, 
Till seme fair sister of the skies 

Receives the unpolluted soul. 
That inextinguishable beam. 

With dust united at our birth. 
Sheds a mon- dim, discolored gleam 

The more it lingers upon earth. 

But when the TiOrd of mortal breath 

Deciecs his liouiity to resume, 
An<l points till' silent shaft of death 

Wliii-li speeds an infant to the tomb. 
No passion fierce, nor low desire, 

Has<iuenchedtheradiance of the flame 
Back to its God the living fire 

Reverts, unclouded as it came. 
Fond mourner ! be that solace thine ! 

Let Hope her healing charm impart. 
Ami soothe, with melodies divine, 

The anguish of a mother's heart. 



O, think ! the darlings of thy love. 

Divested of this eartidy clod, 
Amid unnuniliered saints, above. 

Bask in the bosom of their God. 
O'er thee, with looks of love, they 1 end ; 

For thee the Lord of life implore ; 
And oft from sainted bliss descend 

Thy wounded tpiiet to restore. 
Then dry, henceforth, the bitter tear ; 

Their part and thine inverted see. 
Thou wert their guardian angel here, 

They guardian angels now to thee. 



WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR. 

[1775- 1864.] 

LAMENT. 

I LOVED him not ; and 3et, now heisgone, 

I feel I am alone. 
I checked him while he spoke; yet, 
could he speak, 

Alas ! I would not check. 

For reasons not to love him once I sought. 
And wearied all my thought 

To vex myself and him : I now would give 
My love, could he but live 

Who lately lived for me, and, when he 
found 
'T was vain, in holy gi ound 

He hid his face amid the shades of death ! 

I waste for him my bieath 
Who wasted his for me I but niinereturns. 

And this lorn bosom burns 
With stilling heat, heaving it up in sleep, 

And waking me to weep 
Tears that had melted his soft heart : for 
years 

Wept he as bitter tears ! 

"Merciful God!" such was his latest 
piayer, 

"These may she never share !" 
Quieter is his breath, his breast moie cold 

Tiian daisies in the mould. 
Where children sjiell, athwart the church- 
yard gate. 

His name and. life's brief date. 
Pray forhim, gentle souls, whoe'er you be. 

And, 0, pray, too, for me ! 



138 



SONGS OF THREE CEXTUEIES, 



THOMAS CAMPBELL. 
[1777 -1844] 

THE LAST MAN. 

All worldly shapes shall melt in gloom, 

The sun himself must die, 
Before this mortal shall assume 

Its immortality ! 
I saw a vision in my sleep. 
That gave my spirit strength to sweep 

Adown the gulf of time ! 
1 saw the last of human mould 
That shall creation's death behold, 

As Adam saw her prime ! 

The sun's eye had a sickly glare. 

The earth with age was wan ; 
The skeletons of nations were 

Around that lonely man ! 
Some had expired in fight, — the brands 
Still rusted in their bony hands, 

In [ilague and famine some ! 
Earth's cities had no sound nor tread ; 
And ships were drifting with the dead 

To shores where all was dumb ! 



Yet, prophet-like, that lone one stood, 

AVith dauntless words and high. 
That shook the sere leaves from the wood. 

As if a storm passed by, 
Saying, We are twins in death, proud Sun ! 
Thy face is cold, thy race is run, 

'T is Mercy bids thee go ; 
For thou ten tliousand thousand years 
Hast seen the tide of human tears. 

That shall no longer flow. 



What though beneath thee man put forth 

His pomp, his pride, his skill ; 
And arts that made fire, flood, and earth 

The vassals of his will ? 
Yet mourn I not thy parted sway, 
Thou dim, discrowned king of day ; 

For all those trophied arts 
And triumphs that beneath thee sprang. 
Healed not a passion or a pang 

Entailed on human hearts. 



Go, let oblivion's curtain fall 
IJpon the stage of men. 

Nor with thy rising beams recall 
Life's tragedy again : 



Its piteous pageants bring not back, 
Nor wakt'U flesh, upon the rack 

Of pain anew to writhe ; 
Stretched in disease's shapes abhorred. 
Or mown in battle by the sword. 

Like grass beneath the scythe. 

Even I am weary in yon skies 

To watch thy fading fire ; 
Test of all sumless agonies. 

Behold not me expire. 
My lips that speak thy dirge of death, ^^ 
Their rounded gasp and gurgling breath 

To see thou shalt not boast. 
The eclipse of Nature spreads my pall. 
The majesty of darkness shall 

Receive my parting ghost ! 

This spirit shall return to Him 

Who gave its heavenly spark ; 
Yet think not, Sun, it shall be dim 

When thou thyself art dark ! 
No ! it shall live again, and shine 
In bliss unknown to beams of thine. 

By him recalled to breath, 
Who captive led captivity. 
Who robbed the grave of victor}'. 

And took the sting from death ! 

Go, Sun, while mercy holds me up 

On Nature's awful waste 
To drink this last and bitter cup 

Of grief that man shall taste, — 
Go, tell the night that hides thy face. 
Thou saw'st the last of Adanrs race. 

On earth's sepulchral clod. 
The darkening universe defy 
To quench his immortality. 

Or shake his trust in God ! 



0, HEARD ye yon pibroch sound sad in 
the gale. 

Where a band cometh slowly with weep- 
ing and wail ? 

'T is the chief of Glenara laments for his 
dear ; 

And her sire, and the people, are called 
to her bier. 

Glenara came first with the mourners and 

shroud ; 
Her kinsmen they followed, but mourned 

not aloud : 



THOMAS CA^SIPBELL. 



139 



Their plaids all their bosoms were folded 

around ; 
They niarchedall in silence, — they looked 

on the ground. 

In silence they marched over mountain 

and moor, 
To a heath where the oak-tree grew 

lonely and hoar : 
"Now here let us place the gray stone 

of her cairn : 
Why speak ye no word?" — said Glenara 

the stern. 

"And tell me, I charge you ! ye clan of 
my spouse, 

Why fold ye your mantles, why cloud ye 
your brows?" 

So spake the rude chieftain : — no answer 
is made, 

But each mantle unfolding, a dagger dis- 
played. 

" I dreamt of my lady, I dreamt of her 

shroud," 
Cried a voice from the kinsmen, all 

wrathful and loud ; 
"And empty that shroud and that coflin 

did seem : 
Glenara! Glenara! now read me my 

dream!" 

0, pale grew the cheek of that chieftain, 

I ween. 
When the shroud was unclosed, and no 

lady was seen ; 
When a voice from the kinsmen spoke 

louder in scorn, 
'T was the youth who had loved the fair 

Ellen of Lorn : 

" I dreamt of my lady, I dreamt of her 

grief, 
I dreanit that her lord was a barbarous 

chief : 
On a rock of the ocean fair Ellen did 

seem ; 
Glenara! Glenara! now read me my 

dream!" 

In dust, low the traitor has knelt to the 

ground. 
And the desert revealed where his lady 

was found : 
From a rock of the ocean that beauty is 

borne, — 
Now joy to the house of fair Ellen of 

Lorn! 



LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER. 

A CHIEFTAIN, to the Highlands bound, 
Cries, "Boatman, do not tarry! 

And I '11 give thee a silver pound 
To row us o'er the ferry." 

"Now who be ye, would cross Lochgyle, 
This dark and stormy water ?" 

"0, 1 'm the chief of Ulva's isle. 
And this Lord UUin's daughter. 

" And fast before her father's men 
Three days we 've fled together, 

For should he find us in the glen, 
My blood would stain the heather. 

" His horsemen hard behind us ride; 

Should th('y our steps discover. 
Then who will cheer my bonny bride 

When they have slain her lover?" 

Out spoke the hardy Highland wight : 
"1 '11 go, my chief, — 1 'm ready; 

It is not for your silver bright. 
But for your winsome lady ; 

" And by my word ! the bonny bird 

In danger shall not tarry: 
So, though the waves are raging white, 

I '11 row you o'er the ferry." 

By this the storm grew loud apace, 
The water-wraith was shrieking ; 

And in the scowl of heaven each face 
Grew dark as they were speaking. 

But still, as wilder blew the wind, 
And as the night grew drearer, 

Adown the glen rode armed men, — 
Tlieir trampling sounded nearer. 

"0, haste thee, haste!" the lady cries, 
"Though temj.ests round us gather; 

I '11 meet the raging of the skies, 
But not an angry father." 

The boat has left a stormy land, 

A stormy sea before her, — 
When, 0, too strong for human hand, 

Tlie tempest gathered o'er her ! 

And still they rowed amidst the roar 

Of waters fast prevailing : 
Lord Ullin reached that fatal shore ; 

His wrath was changed to wailing. 



140 



SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 



For, sore dismayed, through storm and 
shade, 

His child he did discover ; 
One lovely hand she stretched for aid, 

And one was round her lover. 

"Comeback! come back!" he cried in 
grief, 

"Across this stormy water ; 
And I '11 forgive your Highland chief, 

My daughter ! — my daughter ! " 

'T was vain ; — the loud waves lashed the 
shore. 

Return or aid preventing ; 
The waters wild went o'er his child, 

And he was left lamenting. 



HOEACE SMITH. 

[1779-1849-] 

HYMN TO THE FLOWERS. 

Day-staks ! that ope your eyes with 
morn, to twinkle 
From rainbow galaxies of earth's crea- 
tion, 
And dew-drops on her holy altars sprinkle 
As a libation. 

Ye matin worshippers ! who, bending 
lowly 
Before the uprisen sun, God's lidless 
eyo, 
Throw from your chalices a sweet and holy 
Incense on high. 

Ye bright mosaics! that with storied 
beauty 
The floor of nature's temple tessellate, 
What numerous emblems of instructive 
duty 
Your forms create ! 

'Neath cloistered boughs, each floral bell 
that swingeth. 
And tolls its perfume on the passing 
air, 
Makes Sabbath in the fields, and ever 
ringeth 
A call to prayer. 

Not to the domes where crumbling arch 
and column 
Attest the feebleness of mortal hand, 



But to that fane, most catholic and 
solemn, 
Which God hath planned ; 

To that cathedral, boundless as our won- 
der. 
Whose quenchless lamps the sun and 
moon supply ; 
Its choir the winds and waves, its organ 
thunder, 
Its dome the sky. 

There, as in solitude and shade I wander 
Through the green aisles, or stretched 
upon the sod, 
Awed by the silence, reverently I ponder 
The ways of God, 

Your voiceless lips, flowers ! are living 
preachers. 
Each cup a pulj^it, and each leaf a 
book. 
Supplying to my fancy numerous teachers 
From loneliest nook. 

Floral apostles ! that in dewy splendor 
"Weep without woe, and blush without 
a crime," 
0, may I deeply learn, and ne'er surrender 
Your lore sublime ! 

"Thou wert not, Solomon, in all thy 

Arrayed," the lilies cry, "in robes like 
ours ; 
How vain your grandeur ! ah, liow tran- 
sitory 
Are human flowers !" 

In the sweet-scented pictures, heavenly 
Artist, 
With which thou paintest Nature's 
wide-spread hall, 
What a delightful lesson thou impartest 
Of love to all ! 

Not useless are ye, flowers ! though made 
for pleasure ; 
Blooming o'er field and wave by day 
and night, 
From every source your sanction bids 
me treasure 
Harmless delight. 

Ephemeral sages ! what instructors hoary 
For such a world of thought could 
furnish scope ? 



HORACE SMITH, 



141 



Each fading calyx a memento mori, 
Yet fount of hope. 

Posthumous glories! angel-like collec- 
tion ! 
Upraised from seed or bulb interred in 
earth, 
Ye are to me a type of resurrection, 
A second birth. 

Were I, God ! in churchless lands re- 
maining, 
Far from all voice of teachei's or di- 
vines. 
My soul would find, in flowers of thy 
ordaining. 
Priests, sermons, shrines ! 



ADDRESS TO AN EGYPTIAK MUMMY. 

And thou hast walked about — how 
strange a story ! — 
In Thebes's streets, three thousand 
years ago ! 

When the Meninonium was in all its 
glory, 
And time had not begun to over- 
throw 

Those temples, palaces, and piles stupen- 
dous. 

Of which the very ruins are tremendous ! 

Speak ! for thou long enough hast acted 

dummy ; 
Thou hast a tongue, — come, let us hear 

its tune ! 
Thou 'rt standing on thy legs, above 

ground, mummy ! 
Eevisiting the glimpses of the moon, — 
Not like thin ghosts or disembodied 

creatures, • 
But with thy bones, and flesh, and limbs, 

and features ! 

Tell us, — for doubtless thou canst recol- 
lect, — 
To whom should we assign the Sphinx's 
fame ? 
Was Cheoi)S or Cephrenes architect 
Of either pyramid that bears his 
name ? 
Is Pompey's Pillar really a misnomer? 
Had Thebes a hundred gates, as sung by 
Homer ? 



Perhaps thou wert a Mason, and forbid- 
den. 
By oath, to tell the mysteries of thy 
trade ; 

Then say, what secret melody was hidden 
In Memnon's statue, which at sunrise 
played ? 

Perhaps thou wert a priest; if so, my 
struggles 

Are vain, for priestcraft never owns its 
juggles ! 

Perchance that very hand, now pinioned 
flat, ^ 

Hath hob-a-nobbed with Pharaoh, 
glass to glass ; 

Or dropped a halfpenny in Homer's hat; 
Or dofl'ed thine own, to let Queen Dido 
pass ; 

Or held, by Solomon's own invitation, 

A torch, at the great temple's dedica- 
tion ! 

1 need not ask thee if that hand, when 
armed. 
Has any Roman soldier mauled and 
knuckled ; 

For thou wert dead, and buried, and em- 
balmed, 
Ere Romulus and Remus had been 
suckled : 

Antiquity appears to have begun 

Long after thy primeval race was run. 

Thou couldst develop, if that withered 

tongue 
Might tell us what those sightless orbs 

have seen. 
How the world looked when it was fresh 

and young. 
And the great deluge still had left it 

green ; 
Or was it then so old that history's 

pages 
Contained no record of its early ages? 

Still silent! — Incommunicative elf! 
Art sworn to secrecy ? Then keep thy 
vows I 

But, prithee, tell us something of thy- 
self,— 
Reveal the secrets of thy prison-house ; 

Since in the world of spirits thou hast 
slumbered. 

What hast thou seen, what strange ad- 
ventures numbered? 



142 



SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 



Since first thy form was in this box 

extended, 
We have, above gi'ound, seen some 

strange mutations ; 
The Roman Empire has begun and ended, 
New worlds have risen, we have lost 

old nations, 
And countless kings have into dust been 

humbled. 
While not a fragment of thy flesh has 

crumbled. 

Didst thou not hear the pother o'er thy 

head. 
When the great Persian conqueror, 

Cambyses, 
Marched armies o'er thy tomb with 

thundering tread, 
O'erthrew Osiris, Orus, Apis, Isis, — 
And shook the pyramids with fear and 

wonder, 
When the gigantic Memnon fell asunder? 

If the tomb's secrets may not be con- 
fessed. 
The nature of thy private life unfold ! 

A heart hath throbbed beneath that 
leathern breast. 
And tears adown that dusty cheek 
have rolled ; 

Have children climbed those knees, and 
kissed that face ? 

What was thy name and station, age and 
race? 

Statue of flesh ! Immortal of the dead ! 
Imperishable type of evanescence ! 

Posthumous man, — who quitt'st thy 
narrow bed. 
And standest undecayed within our 
presence ! 

Thou wilt hear nothing till the judg- 
ment morning, 

When the great trump shall thrill thee 
with its warning ! 

Why should this worthless tegument 
endure. 
If its undying guest be lost forever? 

O, let us keep the soul embalmed and 
pure 
In living virtue, — that when both 
must sever. 

Although corruption may our frame con- 
sume, 

The immortal spirit in the skies may 
bloom ! 



EBENEZER ELLIOTT. 

[1781-1849.] 

A GHOST AT NOON. 

The day was dark, save when the beam 

Of noon through darkness broke; 
In gloom 1 sat, as in a dream, 

Beneath my orchard oak ; 
Lo ! splendor, like a spirit, came, 

A shadow like a tree ! 
While there 1 sat, and named her name 

Who once sat there with me. 

I started from the seat in fear ; 

1 looked around in awe. 
But saw no beauteous spirit near, 

Though all that was I saw, — 
The seat, the tree, where oft, in tears, 

She mourned her hopes o'erthrown, 
Her joys cut ofl" in early years. 

Like gathered flowers half blown. 

Again the bud and breeze were met. 

But Mary did not come ; 
And e'en the rose, which she had set, 

Was fated ne'er to bloom ! 
The thrush proclaimed, in accents sweet, 

That winter's reign was o'er ; 
The bluebells thronged around my feet. 

But Mary came no more. 



FOREST WORSHIP. 

Within the sunlit forest, 

Our roof the bright blue skj'. 
Where fountains flow, and wild-flowers 
blow. 

We lift our hearts on high : 
Beneath the frown of wicked men 

Our country's strength is bowing ; 
But, thanks to God ! they can't prevent 

Tlae lone wild-flowers from blowing ! 

High, high above the tree-tops, 

The lark is soaring free ; 
Where streams the light through broken 
clouds 

His speckled breast I see : 
Beneath the might of wicked men 

The i)oor man's worth is dying; 
But, thanked be God ! in spite of them, 

The lark still warbles flying ! 



REGINALD HEBER. 



143 



The preacher prays, "Lord, bless us !" 

"Lord, bless us !" echo cries ; 
"Amen !" the breezes murmur low; 

"Amen !" the rill replies: 
The ceaseless toil of woe-worn hearts 

The proud with pangs are paying, 
But here, God of earth and heaven ! 

The humble heart is praying. 

How softly, in the pauses 

Of song, re-echoed wide. 
The cushat's coo, the linnet's lay, 

O'er rill and river glide ! 
With evil deeds of evil men 

The affrighted land is ringing ; 
But still, Lord, the pious heart 

And soul-toned voice are singing ! 

Hush ! hnsli ! the preacher preacheth : 

"Woe to the oppressor, woe !" 
But sudden gloom o'ercasts the sun 

And saddened flowers below ; 
So frowns the Lord ! —but, tyrants, ye 

Deride liis indignation, 
And see not in the gathered brow 

Your days of tribulation ! 

Speak low, thou heaven-paid teacher ! 

The tempest bursts above : 
God whispers in the thunder ; hear 

The terrors of his love ! 
On useful hands and honest hearts 

The base their wrath are wreaking ; 
But, thanked be God ! they can't prevent 

The storm of heaven from speaking. 



CORN-LAW HYMN. 

LORP ! call thy pallid angel. 

The tamer of the strong ! 
And bid him whip with want and woe 

The champions of the wrong ! 
0, say not thou to ruin's flood, 

"Up, sluggard! why so slow?" 
But alone let them groan. 

The lowest of the low ; 
And basely beg the bread they cui'se, 

Where millions curse them now ! 

No ; wake not thou the giant 
Who drinks hot blood for wine, 

And shouts unto the east and west. 
In thunder-tones like thine. 

Till the slow to move rush all at once, 
An avalanche of men, 



While he raves over waves 
That need no whirlwind then ; 
Though slow to move, moved all at once, 
A sea, a sea of men ! 



REGINALD HEBEE. 

[1783- 1826.] 

IF THOU WERT BY MY SIDE. 

If thou wert by my side, my love, 
How fast would evening fail 

In green Bengala's palmy grove, 
Listening the nightingale ! 

If thou, my love, wert by my side, 

My babies at my knee. 
How gayly would our yiinnace glide 

O'er Gunga's mimic sea! 

I miss thee at the dawning gray. 
When, on our deck reclined. 

In careless ease my limbs I lay, 
And woo the cooler wind. 

I miss thee when by Gunga's stream 

My twilight steps I guide. 
But most beneath the lamp's pale beam 

I miss thee from my side. 

I spread my books, my pencil try, 
The lingering noon to cheer. 

But miss th}' kind, approving eye. 
Thy meek, attentive ear. 

But when of morn or eve the star 

Beholds me on my knee, 
I feel, though thou art distant far. 

Thy prayers ascend for me. 

Then on ! then on ! whei'e duty leads. 

My course be onward still ; 
O'er broad Hindostan's sultry meads, 

O'er bleak Almorah's hill. 

That course nor Delhi's kingly gates 

Nor wild Malwali detain ; 
For sweet the bliss us both awaits 

By yonder western main. 

Thy towers, Bombay, gleam bright, they 
say, 

Across the dark-blue sea; 
But ne'er were hearts so light and gay 

As then shall meet in thee I 



144 



SONGS OF THREE CENTUEIES. 



BERNARD BARTON. 

[1784- 1849.] 

NOT OURS THE VOWS. 

Not ours the vows of sucli as plight 
Their troth in sunny weather, 

While leaves are green, and skies are 
bright. 
To walk on flowers together. 

But we have loved as those who tread 

The thorny path of sorrow, 
With clouds above, and cause to dread 

Yet deeper gloom to-mon-ow. 

That thorny path, those stormy skies, 
Have drawn our spirits nearer ; 

And rendered us, by sorrow's ties, 
Each to the other dearer. 

Love, born in hours of joy and mirth, 
With mirth and joy may perish ; 

That to which darker hours gave birth 
Still more and more we cherish. 

It looks beyond the clouds of time, 
And through death's shadowy portal ; 

Made by adversity sublime. 
By faith and hope immortal. 



LEIGH HUNT. 

[1784-1859.] 

AN ANGEL IN THE HOUSE. 

How sweet it were, if without feeble 

fright. 
Or dying of the dreadful beauteous sight, 
An angel came to us, and we could bear 
To see him issue from the silent air 
At evening in our room, and bend on ours 
His divine eyes, and bring us from his 

bowers 
News of dear friends, and children who 

have never 
Been dead indeed, — as we shall know 

forever. 
Alas ! we think not what we daily see 
About our hearths, angels, that are to 

be, 



Or may be if they Avill, and we prepare 
Their souls and ours to meet in happy 

air, — 
A child, a friend, a wife whose soft heart 

sings 
In unison with ours, breeding its future 

wings. 



ABOU BEN ADEEM AND THE ANGEL. 

Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe in- 
crease ! ) 
Awoke one night from a deep dream of 

peace. 
And saw within the moonlight in hif 

room. 
Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom. 
An angel, writing in a book of gold ; 
Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem 

bold, 
And to the presence in the room he said, 
"What writest thou ?" The vision raised 

its head, 
And with a look made of all sweet accord. 
Answered, ' ' The names of those who love 

the Lord." 
"And is mine one?" said Abou. "Nay, 

not .so," 
Replied theangel. Abou spoke more low. 
But cheerly still ; and said, ' ' I pray thee, 

then. 
Write me as one that loves his fellow- 
men." 
The angel wrote and vanished. The 

next night 
It came again, with a great wakening 

light, 
And showed the names whom love of God 

had blessed. 
And, lo ! Ben Adhem's name led all the 

rest. 



ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. 

[.78s -1842.] 

A WET SHEET AND A FLOWING SEA. 

A WET sheet and a flowing sea, 

A wind that follows fast, 
And fills the white and rustling sail, 

And bends the gallant mast, — 
And bends the gallant mast, my boys, 

While, like the eagle free, 




"A WET SHEET AND A FLOWING SEA." — Page I44.. 



ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. 



145 



Away the good ship flies, and leaves 
Old Eiiffland on our lee. 



for a soft and gentle wind ! 

I heard a fair one cr}^ ; 
But give to me the swelling breeze, 

And white waves heaving high, — 
The white waves heaving high, my lads, 

The good ship tight and free ; 
The world of waters is our home. 

And merry men are we. 



THOTJ HAST SWORN BY THY GOD. 

Thou hast sworn by thy God, my Jeanie, 

By that pretty white hand o' thine. 
And by a' the lowing stars in heaven, 

Tliat thou wad aye be nune ; 
And I liae sworn by my God, my Jeanie, 

And by that kind heart o' thine, 
By a' the stars sown thick owre heaven. 

That thou slialt aye be mine. 



Then foul fa* the hands that Mad loose 
sic bands, 

An' the heart that wad part sic luve; 
But there 's nae hand can loose my band. 

But the finger o' God abuve. 
Though the wee, wee cot maun be my bield, 

And my claithing e'er so mean, 
I wad la]) me up rich i' tiie faulds o' luve. 

Heaven's annfu' o' my Jean. 

Her white arm wad be a pillow for me 

Far safter tlian the down ; 
And Luve wad winnow owre us his kind, 
kind wings. 

An' sweetly I 'd sleep, an' soun'. 
Come here to me, thou lass o' my luve, 

Come here, and kneel wi' me ! 
The morn is fu' o' the jjresence o' God, 

An' I canna pray without thee. 

The morn-wind is sweet 'mang the beds 
o' new flowers, 
Tlie wee birds sing kindlie an' hie ; 
Our gudeman leans owre his kale-yard 
dyke, 
And a blythe auld bodie is he. 
The Beuk maun be taen when the carle 
comes hame, 
Wi' the holie psalmodie ; 
10 



And thou maun speak o' me to thy God, 
And 1 will speak o' thee. 



SHE 'S GANE TO DWALL IN HEAVEN. 

She 's gane to dwall in heaven, my lassie, 
She 's gane to dwall in heaven : 

Ye 're owre pure, quo' the voice o' God, 
For dwalling out o' heaven ! 



0, what '11 she do in heaven, my lassie? 

0, what '11 she do in heaven ' 
She 'U mix her ain thouglits wi' angels' 
^ sangs, 

An' make them mair meet for heaven. 



She was beloved by a', my lassie, 
She was beloved by a' ;' 

But an angel fell in love wi' her, 
An' took her frae us a'. 



Low there thou lies, my lassie. 

Low there thou lies ; 
A bonnier form ne'er went to the yird, 

Nor frae it will arise ! 



Fu' soon I '11 follow thee, my lassie, 
Fu' soon I '11 follow thee ; 

Thou left me naught to covet ahin', 
But took gudeness sel' wi' thee. 



I looked on thy death-cold face, my lassie, 
I looked on thy death-cold face ; 

Thou seemed a lily new cut i' the bud, 
An' fading in its place. 

I looked on thy death-shut eye, my lassie, 
1 looked on thy death-shut eye ; 

An' a lovelier light in the brow of heaven 
Fell time shall ne'er destroy. 

Thy lips were ruddy and calm, my lassie, 
Thy lips were ruddy and calm ; 

But gane was the holy breath o' heaven. 
To sing the evening psalm. 

There's naught but dust now mine, lassie, 
There 's naught but dust now mine ; 

My saul 's wi' thee i' the cauld grave, 
An' why should I stay behin' < 



146 



SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 



JOHN WILSON. 

[1785-1854-] 

THE EVENING CLOUD. 

A CLOUD lay cradled near the setting sun, 
A gleam of crimson tinged its braided 

snow : 
Long had I watched the glory moving on 
O'er the still radiance of the lake below. 
Tranquil its spirit seemed, and floated 

slow ! 
Even in its very motion there was rest ; 
While every breath of eve that chanced 

to blow 
Wafted the traveller to the beauteous west. 
Emblem, methought, of the departed soul. 
To whose white robe the gleam of bliss is 

given ; 
And by the breath of mercy made to roll 
Eight onwards to the golden gates of 

heaven, 
Where to the eye of faith it peaceful lies. 
And tells to man his glorious destinies. 



SIR JOHN BOWPJNG. 

[1792 .] 

FROM THE RECESSES. 

From the recesses of a lowly spirit 

My humble prayer ascends : Father ! 

liear it. 
Upsoaring on the wings of fear and meek- 
ness. 
Forgive its weakness. 



I know, I feel, how mean and how un- 
worthy 
The trembling sacrifice I pour be fore thee ; 
What can I offer in thy presence holy, 
But sin and folly? 



For in thy sight, who every bosom view- 

est. 
Cold are our warmest vows, and vain our 

truest ; 
Thoughts of a hurrying hour, our lips 

repeat them, 
Our hearts forget them. 



it leads us, it sup- 
it counsels and it 
and still thy 



We see thj' hand, 

ports us ; 
We hear thy voice, 

courts us ; 
And then we turn away, 

kindness 
Forgives our blindness. 

And still thy rain descends, thy sun is 
glowing. 

Fruits ripen round, flowers are beneath 
us blowing, 

And, as if man were some deserving crea- 
ture, 
Joy covers nature. 

0, how long-suffering, Lord ! but thou 

delightest 
To win with love the wandering; thou 

invitest, 
By smiles of mercy, not by frowns or 

terrors, 
Man from his errors. 

Who can resist thy gentle call, appeal- 
ing 

To every generous thought and grateful 
feeling, — 

That voice paternal, whispering, watch- 
ing ever, — 
My bosom? — never. 

Father and Saviour! plant within this 

bosom 
The seeds of holiness; and bid them 

blossom 
In fragrance and in beauty bright and 

vernal, 
And spring etenial ! 

Then place them in those everlasting 

gardens. 
Where angels walk, and seraphs are the 

wardens; 
Where every flower that climbs through 

death's dark portal 
Becomes immortal. 



Father, thy paternal care 

Has my guardian been, my guide. 
Every hallowed wish and prayer 

Has thy hand of love supplied. 
Thine is every thought of bliss 

Left by hours and days gone by ; 



SAMUEL WOODWORTH. — ANDREWS NORTON. 



147 



Every hope thj' offspring is, 
Beaming from futurity. 

Every sun of splendid ray, 

Every moon that shines serene, 
Every morn that welcomes day, 

Every evening's twilight scene. 
Every hour that wisdom brings, 

Every incense at thy shrine, — ■ 
These, and all life's holiest things. 

And its fairest, all are thine. 



And for all, my hymns shall rise 

Daily to thy gracious throne ; 
Thither let my asking eyes 

Turn unwearied, righteous One ! 
Through life's strange vicissitude, 

There reposing all my care ; 
Trusting still, through ill and good, 

Fixed, and cheered, and counselled 
tliere. 



SAMUEL WOODWORTH. 



[u. 



178s ' 1842.] 



THE BUCKET. 

How dear to this heart are the scenes of 

my childhood, 
When fond recollection presents them 

to view ! 
The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled 

wildwood. 
And every loved spot which my infancy 

knew ! — 
The wide-spreading pond, and the mill 

that stood by it, 
The bridge, and the rock where the 

cataract fell, 
The cot of my father, the dairy-house 

nigh it. 
And e'en the nide bucket that hung 

in the well, — 
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound 

bucket, 
The moss-covered bucket, which hung in 

the well. 

That moss-covered vessel I hailed as a 
treasure ; 
For often at noon, when returned from 
the field, 



I found it the source of an exi^uisite 

pleasure, 
The purest and sweetest that nature 

can yield. 
How ardent I seized it, with hands that 

were glowing, 
And quick to the white-pebbled bottom 

it fell ; 
Then soon, with the emblem of truth over- 
flowing, 
And dripping with coolness, it rose 

from the well, — 
The ohi oaken bucket, the iron-bound 

bucket, 
The moss-covered bucket, arose from the 



How sweet from the green, mossy biim 

to receive it, 
As, poised on the curb, it inclined to 

my lips ! 
Not a full, blushing goblet could tempt 

me to leave it, 
Though filled with the nectar that 

Jupiter sips. 
And now, far removed from the loved 

habitation, 
The tears of regret will intrusively 

swell, 
As fancy reverts to my father's planta- 
tion. 
And sighs for the bucket that hangs 

in the well, — 
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound 

bucket, 
The moss-covered bucket, that hangs in 

the well. 



ANDREWS NORTON. 

[U.S. A., 1786- 1853.] 



AFTER A SUMMER SHOWER. 

Thk rain is o'er. How dense and bright 
Yon pearly clouds reposing He ! 

Cloud above cloud, a gloiious sight, 
Contrasting with the dark blue sky ! 

In grateful silence earth receives 

The general blessing ; fresli and fair, 

Each flower expands its little leaves, 
As glad the common joy to share. 

The softened sunbeams pour around 
A fairy light, uncertain, pale ; 



148 



SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 



The wind flows cool ; the scented ground 
Is breathing odors on the gale. 

Iklid yon rich clouds' voluptuous pile, 
Metliinks some spirit of the air 

Migiit rest, to gaze below awhile, 
Then turn to bathe and revel there. 

The sun breaks forth ; from off the scene 
Its tloatiiig veil of mist is flung; 

And all the wilderness of green 

With trembling di'ops of light is hung. 

Now gaze on Nature, — 3'et the same, — 
Glowing with life, by breezes fanned, 

Luxuriant, lovely, as she came. 
Fresh in her youth, from God's own hand . 

Hear the rich music of that voice, 
Which sounds from all below, above ; 

She calls her children to rejoice. 

And round them throws herarmsoflove. 

Drink in her influence ; low-born care, 
And all the train of mean desire, 

Kefuse to breathe this holy air. 
And mid this living light expire. 



CAEOLI^^E BOWLES SOUTHEY. 

[17S7-1S54.] 

MARINER'S HYMN. 

Launch thy bark, mariner! 

Christian, God speed thee! 
Let loose the rudder-bands, — 

Good angels lead thee ! 
Set thy sails warily, 

Tempests will come ; 
Steer thy course steadily : 

Christian, steer home ! 

Look to the weather-bow, 

Breakers are round thee ; 
Let fall the plummet now, 

Sliallows may ground thee. 
Reef in the foresail, there ! 

Hold the helm fast ! 
So — let the vessel wear — 

Thei-e swept the blast. 

"What of the night, watchman? 

What of the night?" 
"Cloudy — all quiet — 

No land yet — all 's right." 



Be wakeful, be vigilant, — 

Danger may be 
At an hour when all seenieth 

Securest to thee. 

How ! gains the leak so fast? 

Clean out the hold, — 
Hoist up thy merchandise, 

Heave out thy gold; 
There — let the ingots go — 

Now the ship rights; 
Hurrah ! the harbor 's near — 

Lo ! the red lights ! 

Slacken not sail yet 

At inlet or island ; 
Straight for the beacon steer, 

Straight for the high land ; 
Crowd all thy canvas on. 

Cut through the foam : 
Christian ! cast anchor now, — 

Heaven is thv houie ! 



LAYINIA STODDARD. 

[U. S. A., 17S7-1S20.] 

THE SOUL'S DEFIANCE. 

I SAID to Sorrow's awful storm 

That beat against my breast, 
Eage on, — thou niayst destroy this form, 

Antl lay it low at rest ; 
But still the spirit that now brooks 

Thy tempest, raging high. 
Undaunted on its fury looks, 

With steadfast eye. 

I said to Penury's meagre train. 

Come on, — your threats I brave; 
My last poor life-drop you may drain, 

And crush me to the grave ; 
Yet still the spirit that endures 

Shall mock your force the while. 
And meet each cold, cold grasp of yours 

With bitter smile. 

I said to cold Neglect and Scorn, 

Pass on, — I heed you not ; 
Ye may pursue me till my form 

And being are forgot ; 
Yet still the spirit, whicli you see 

Undaunted by your wiles. 
Draws from its own nobility 

Its highborn smiles. 



WILLIAM KNOX. 



149 



I said to Friendship's menaced blow, 

Strike deep, — my heart shall bear; 
Thou eanst but add one bitter woe 

To tliose alreadj' there ; 
Yet still the sjiirit that sustains 

Tbis last severe distress 
Shall smile upon its keenest pains, 

And scorn redress. 

I said to Death's uplifted dart, 

Aim sure, — (), why delay? 
Thou wilt not find a tearful heart, 

A weak, reluctant prey ; 
For still tlie spirit, firm and free, 

Unruffled by this last dismay, 
Wrapt in its own eternity, 

Shall pass away. 



WILLIAM KNOX. 

[1789-1825] 

O, WHY SHOULD THE SPIRIT OF 
MORTAL BE PROUD? 

0, WHY should the spirit of mortal be 

proud ? 
Like a fast-flitting meteor, a fast-flying 

cloud, 
A flash of the lightning, a break of the 

wave. 
He passeth from life to his rest in the 

grave. 

The leaves of the oak and the willow 

shall fade. 
Be scattered around and together be laid ; 
And the young and the old, and the low 

and the high. 
Shall moulder to dust and together shall 

lie. 

The child that a mother attended and 

loved. 
The mother that infant's affection who 

proved, 
The husband that mother and infant who 

blessed, — 
Each, all, are away to their dwellings of 

rest. 

The maid on whose cheek, on whose 
brow, in whose eye. 

Shone beauty and ydeasure, — her tri- 
umphs are by ; 



And the memory of those who have loved 

her and praised. 
Are alike from the minds of the living 

erased. 

The hand of the king that the sceptre 

hath home, 
The brow of the priest that the mitra 

hath worn. 
The eye of the sage, and the heart of the 

brave. 
Are hidden and lost in the depths of the 

grave. 

The peasant whose lot was to sow and to 

reap. 
The herdsman who clindjed with his 

goats to the steep. 
The beggar v.ho wandered in search of 

his bread, 
Have faded away like the grass that we 

tread. 

The saint who enjoyed the communion 

of Iieaven, 
The sinner who dared to remain unfor- 

given. 
The wise and the foolish, the guilty and 

just, 
Have quietly mingled their bones in the 

dust. 

So the multitude goes, like the flower 

and the weed, 
That wither away to let others succeed ; 
So the multitude comes, even those we 

behold. 
To repeat every tale that hath often been 

told. 

For we are the same things our fathers 

have been ; 
We see the same sights that our fathers 

have seen, — 
We drink the same stream, and we feel 

the same sun. 
And run the same course that our fathers 

have run. 

The thoughts we are thinking our fathers 

would think ; 
From the death we are shrinking h'o■m^ 

they too would shrink ; 
To the life we are clinging to, they too 

would cling ; 
But it speeds from the earth like a bijil 

on the wing. 



a 



/i^' 



150 



SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 



They loved, but their story we cannot 
unfold ; 

Tliey scorned, but the heart of the haughty 
is cold ; 

They grieved, but no wail from their 
slumbers will come ; 

They joyed, but the voice of their glad- 
ness is dumb. 

They died, — ay ! they died ; and we things 
that are now, 

Who walk on the turf that lies over their 
brow. 

Who make in their dwellings a transient 
abode. 

Meet the changes tliey met on their pil- 
grimage road. 

Yea, hope and despondence, and pleasure 

and pain, 
Are ndngled together in sunshine and 

rain ; 
And the smile and the tear, the song and 

the dii-ge, 
Still follow each other, like surge upon 

surge. 

'T is the twink of an eye, 't is the draught 
of a breath. 

From the blossom of health to the pale- 
ness of death, 

From the gilded saloon to the bier and 
the shroud, — 

0, why should the spirit of mortal be 
proud ? 



KICHAPtD H. BAPtHAM. 

[1788-1845.] 

THE JACKDAW OF RHEIMS. 

The Jackdaw sat on the Cardinal's chair ; 
Bishop and abbot and prior were there ; 

Many a monk and many a friar. 

Many a knight and many a squire, 
Withagreat many moreof lesser degree, — 
In sooth, a goodly company ; 
And they served the Lord Primate on 
bended knee. 

Never, I ween, 

Was a prouder seen, 
Bead of in books or dreamt of in dreams, 
Than the Cardinal Lord Archbishop of 
Kheims i 



In and out. 

Through the motley rout, 
The little Jackdaw kept hopping about ; 

Here and there, 

Like a dog in a fair. 

Over comfits and cates 

And dishes and plates. 
Cowl and cope and rochet and pall, 
Mitre and crosier, he hopped upon all. 

With a saucy air 

He perched on the chair 
Where, in state, the great Lord Cardinal 

sat. 
In the great Lord Cardinal's great red 
hat; 

And he peered in the face 

Of his Lordship's Grace, 
With a satisfied look, as if to say, 
"We two are the greatest folks here to- 
day!" 

And the priests with awe, 

As such freaks they saw, 
Said, "The Devil must be in that little 
Jackdaw !" 

The feast was ovei-, the boaixl was cleared, 
The flawns and the custards had all dis- 

aji^ieared. 
And six little singing-boys, — dear little 

souls ! — ■ 
In nice clean faces and nice white stoles, 
Came, in order due. 
Two by two. 
Marching that grand refectory through ! 
A nice little boy held a golden ewer. 
Embossed, and filled with watei', as pure 
As any that flows between Eheims and 

Namur, 
Which a nice little boy stood ready to 

catch 
Inafinegolden hand-basin madetomatoh. 
Two nice little boya, rather more grown, 
Poured lavender-water and eau-de-Co- 
logne ; 
Andanice little boy had a nice cake of soap 
Worthyof washingthehands of the Pope ! 
One little boy more 
A napkin bore 
Of the best white diaper fringed with pink, 
And a cardinal's hat marked in perma- 
nent ink. 

ThegreatLord Cardinal turns at the sight 
Of these nice little boys dressed all in 
white ; 

From his finger he draws 

His costly turquoise : 



EICHAKD H. BAKHAM. 



151 



And, not thinking at all about little Jack- 
daws, 
Deposits it straight 
By the side of his plate. 
While the nice little boys on his Emi- 
nence wait ; 
Till, when nobody 's dreanaing of any 

such thing, 
That little Jackdaw hops off with the 



There 's a cry and a shout, 
And a deuce of a rout, 
And nobody seems to know what they 're 

about. 
But the monks have their pockets all 
turned inside out ; 
The friars are kneeling. 
And hunting and feeling 
The carpet, the iloor, and the walls, and 
the ceiling. 
The Cardinal drew 
Off each plum-colored shoe, 
And left his red stockings exposed to the 
view; 
He peeps, and he feels 
In the toes and the heels. 
They turn up the dishes, — they turn up 

the plates, — 
They take up the poker and poke out the 
grates, — 
They turn up the rugs. 
They examine the mugs ; 
But, no ! — no such thing, — 
They can't find the ring ! 
And the Abbot declared that "when 

nobody twigged it. 
Some rascal or other had popped in and 
prigged it ! " 

The Cardinal rose with a dignified look. 
He called for his candle, his bell, and his 

book ! 
In holy anger and pious grief 
He solemnly cursed that rascally thief ! 
He cursed him at board, he cursed him 

in bed ; 
From the sole of his foot to the crown 

of his head ; 
He cursed him in sleeping, that every 

night 
He should dream of the Devil, and 

wake in a fright. 
He cursed him in eating, he cursed 

him in drinking, 
He cursed him in coughing, in sneez- 
ing, in winking: 



He cursed him in sitting, in standing, 

in lying; 
He cursed him in walking, in riding, 

in flying ; 
He cursed him living, he cursed him 
dying! — 
Never was heard such a terrible curse ! 
But what gave rise 
To no little surprise, 
Nobody seemed one jienny the worse ! 

The day was g( ne. 
The night came on, 
The monks and the friars they searched 
till dawn ; 
When the sacristan saw. 
On crumpled claw, 
Come limping a poor little lame Jackdaw ! 
No longer gay. 
As on yesterday ; 
His feathers all seemed to be turned the 

wrong way ; — 
His pinions drooped, — he could hardly 

stand, — 
His head was as bald as the palm of your 
hand ; 
His eye so dim. 
So wasted each limb. 
That, heedless of grammar, they all cried, 

"That 's him! 
That 's the scamp that has done this 

scandalous thing. 
That 's the thief that lias got my Lord 
Cardinal's king!" 
Tlie poor little Jackdaw^ 
When the monks he saw. 
Feebly gave vent to tlie ghost of a caw ; 
And turned his bald head as much as to 

say, 
"Pray be so good as to walk this way ! " 
Slower and slower 
He limped on before, 
Till they came to the back of the belfry 
door. 
Where tlie first thing they saw, 
Midst the sticks and the straw. 
Was the ring in the nest of that little 
Jackdaw ! 

Then the great Lord Cardinal called for 

his book, 
And off that terrible curse he took ; 
The mute expression 
Served in lieu of confession, 
And, being thus coupled with full resti- 
tution. 
The Jackdaw got plenary absolution ! 



152 



SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 



When those words were heard 
That i)oor little bird 
Was so chancred in a moment, 't was 
really absurd : 
He grew sleek and fat ; 
In addition to that, 
A fresh crop of feathers came thick as a 
mat ! 
His tail waggled more 
Even than before ; 
But uo longer it wagged with an impu- 
dent air. 
No longer he perched on the Cardinal's 
chair. 
He hopped now about 
With a gait devout ; 
At matins, at vesj)ers, he never was out ; 
And, so far fi'om any more pilfering deeds. 
He always seemed telling the Confessor's 

beads. 
If any one lied, or if any one swore, 
Or slumbered in prayer-time and hap- 
pened to snore, 
That good Jackdaw 
Wouhl give a great "Caw !" 
As much as to say, "Don't do so any 

more !" 
While many remarked, as his manners 

they saw, 
That they "never had known such a 
pious Jackdaw !" 
He long lived the ])ride 
Of that country side, 
And at last in the odor of sanctity died ; 
When, as words were too faint 
His merits to paint. 
The Conclave determined to make him a 

Saint. 
And on newly made Saints and Popes, 

as you know. 
It 's the custom at Rome new names to 

bestow. 
So they canonized him by the name of 
Jem Crow ! 



EICHARD HENRY WILDE. 

[U. S. A., 1789-1847.] 

MY LIFE IS LIKE THE SUMMER ROSE. 

My life is like the summer rose 
That opens to the morning sky. 

But ere the shades of evening close 
Is scattered on the ground — to die. 



Yet on the rose's humble bed 
The sweetest dews of night are shed, 
As if she wept the waste to see, • — 
But none shall weep a tear for me ! 

My life is like the autumn h^af, 

That trembles in tlie moon's ])ale ray; 
Its hold is frail, its date is brief; 

l!estl('>s, and soon to ])ass away! 
Yet, ere that leaf shall fall and fad,^ 
The pari'Ut tree will mourn its shade. 
The winds bewail the leailess tiee, — 
But none shall breathe a sigh for me ! 

My life is like tlie prints which feet 
Have left on Tampa's desert strand; 

Soon as the rising tide shall beat, 
All trace will vanish from the sand ; 

Yet, as if grieving to efface 

All vestige of the human race. 

On that lone shore loud moans the sea, — 

But none, alas ! shall mourn for me ! 



CHARLES AVOLFE. 

[1791-1823.] 

THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE. 

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, 
As his corse to the rampart we hurried ; 

Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot 
O'er the grave where our hero we buried. 

We buried him darkly at dead of night, 
The .sods with our bayonets turning ; 

By the strugglingmoonbeams' misty light, 
And the lantern dimly burning. 

No useless coffin enclosed his breast, 
Nor in sheet nor in shroud we wound 
him ; 

But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, 
With his martial cloak around him. 

Few and short were the prayers we said, 
And we spoke not a word of sori'ow; 

But we steadfa.stly gazed on the face that 
was dead, 
And we bitterly thought of the morrow. 

We thought, as we hollowed his narrow 
be'd. 
And smoothed down his lonely pillow, 



JOHN HOWARD PAYNE. — FELICIA HEMANS. 



153 



That the foe and the stranger woukl tread 
o'er his liead, 
And we tar away on the billow ! 

Lightly they '11 talk of the spirit that 's 

gone, 

And o'er his cold ashes upbraiil him, — 

But little he '11 reck, if they let him sleep 

on 

In the grave where a Briton has laid him. 

But half our heavy task was done, 
When the clock struck the hour for 
retiring; 

And we heard the distant and random gun 
That the foe was sullenly tiring. 



Slowly and sadly we laid him down. 
From the field of his fame fresh and 
■ gory ; 
We carved not a line, we raised not a 
stone, — 
But we left him alone with his glory. 



JOHN HOWARD PAYXE. 



[u. s. 



1792 -1852.] 



SWEET HOME. 

Mid pleasures and palaces though we 

may roam, 
Be it ever so humble, there 's no place 

like home ! 
A charm from the skies seems to hallow 

us here. 
Which, seek through the world, is ne'er 

met with elsewhere. 
Home, home, sweet home ! 
There 's no place like home ! 

An exile from home, splendor dazzles in 

vain ! 
0, give me my lowly thatched cottage 

again ! 
The biids singing gayly that came at my 

call; — 
0, give me sweet peace of mind, dearer 

than all ! 
Home, home, sweet home ! 
Tliere 's no place like home ! 



FELICIA HEMA^^S. 

[1794-1835-] 

THE CHILDE'S DESTINY. 

No mistress of the hidden skill. 

No wizard gaunt and grim. 
Went up by night to heath or hill 

To read the stars for him ; 
The merriest girl in all the land 

Of vine-encircled France 
Bestowed upon his brow and hand 

Her ]>hilosophic glance. 
"1 bind thee with a spell," said she, 

' ' I sign thee with a sign ; 
No woman's love shall light on thee. 

No woman's heart be tliine ! 

"And trust me, 't is not that thy cheek 

Is colorless and cold, 
Nor that thine eye is slow to speak 

What only eyea have told ; 
For many a cheek of paler white 

Hath blushed with passion's kiss, 
And many an eye of lesser light 

Hath caught its fire i'rom bliss : 
Yet while the rivers seek the sea. 

And while the young stars shine. 
No woman's love shall light on thee, 

No woman's heart be thine ! 

" And 't is not that thy sjiirit, awed 

By beauty's numbing spell. 
Shrinks from the force or from the fraud 

Which beauty loves so well ; 
For thou hast learned to watch and 
wake. 

And swear by earth and sky. 
And thou art very bold to take 

What we must still deny : 
I cannot tell ; the chnrm was wrought 

B}' other threads than mine ; 
The lips are lightly begged or bought, 

The heart may not be thine ! 

"Yet thine the brightest smile shall be 

That ever beauty wore. 
And contidence from two or three. 

And compliments from more ; 
And one shall give, perchance hath given, 

What only is not love, — 
Friendship, 0, such as saints in heaven 

Kain on us from above. 
If she shall meet thee in the bower, 

Or name thee in the shrine, 



154 



SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 



0, wear the ring, and guard the flow- 
er, — 
Her heart may not bd thine ! 

"Go, set thy boat before the Wast, 

Thy breast before the gun, — 
The haven shall be reached at last, 

The battle shall be won ; 
Or muse upon thy country's laws, 

Or strike thy country's lute, 
And patriot hands shall sound applause. 

And lovely lips be mute : 
Go, dig the diamond from the wave. 

The treasure from the mine. 
Enjoy the wreath, the gold, the grave, — 

No woman's heart is thine ! 

" I charm thee from the agony 

Which others feel or feign, 
From anger and from jealousy, 

From doubt and from disdain ; 
I bid thee wear the scorn of years 

Upon the cheek of youth, 
And curl the lip at passion's tears. 

And shake the head at truth : 
While there is bliss in revelry, 

Forgetfulness in wine. 
Be thou from woman's love as free 

As woman is from thine !" 



KINDRED HEARTS. 

0, ASK not, hope thou not, too much 

Of symjjathy below ; 
Few are the hearts whence one same touch 

Bids the sweet fountains flow : 
Few — and by still conflicting powers 

Forbidden here to meet — 
Such ties would make this life of ours 

Too fair for aught so fleet. 

It may be that thy brother's eye 

Sees not as thine, which turns 
In such deep reverence to the sky 

Where the rich sunset burns ; 
It may be that the breath of spring, 

Born amidst violets lone, 
A rapture o'er thy soul can bring, — 

A dream, to his unknown. 

The tune that speaks of other times, — 

A sorrowful delight ! 
The melody of distant chimes, 

The sound of waves by night ; 
The wind that, with so many a tone. 

Some chord within can thrill, — 



These may have language all thine own, 
To him a mystery still. 

Yet scorn thou not for this the true 

And steadfast love of years ; 
The kindly, that from childhood grew, 

The faithful to thy tears ! 
If there be one that o'er the dead 

Hath in thy grief borne part. 
And watched through sickness by thy 
bed. 

Call Ibis a kindred heart ! 

But for those bonds all perfect made. 

Wherein bright spirits blend. 
Like sister flowers of one sweet shade 

AVith the same breeze that bend. 
For that full bliss of thought allied, 

Never to mortals given, 
O, lay thy lovely dreams aside. 

Or lift them unto heaven ! 



MAEIA BROOKS. 

[U. S. A., 1795-1845.] 

MARRIAGE. 

The bard has sung, God never formed a 
soul 
Without its own peculiar mate, to meet 
Its wandering half, when ripe to crown 
the whole 
Bright plan of bliss, most heavenly, 
most complete ! 
But thousand evil things there are that 
hate 
To look on happiness ; these hurt, im- 
pede. 
And, leagued with time, space, circum- 
stance, and fate. 
Keep kindred heart from heart, to pine 
and pant and bleed. 

And as the dove to far Palmyra flying. 
From where her native founts of An- 
tioch beam. 
Weary, exhausted, longing, panting, 
sighing, 
Lights sadly at the desert's bitter 
stream, — 
So many a soul, o'er life's drear desert 
faring. 
Love's pure, congenial spring un found, 
unquaffed, 



JAMES G. PERCIVAL — JOHN G. C. BRAINARD. 



155 



Suffers, recoils, — then, thirsty and de- 
spairing 
Of what it would, descends and sips 
the nearest draught. 



JAMES G. PERCIVAL. 



[u. 



1795 1856.] 



I FEEL a newer life in every gale ; 

The winds, that fan the flowers. 
And with their welcome breathings fill 
the sail, 
Tell of serener hours, — 
Of hours that glide nnfelt away 
Beneath tlie sky of May. 

The spirit of the gentle south-wind calls 

From his blue throne of air, 
And where his whispering voice in mnsic 
falls, 
Beauty is budding there ; 
' The bright ones of the valley break 
Their shnnbers, and awake. 

The waving verdure rolls along the plain. 

And the wide forest weaves. 
To welcome back its playful mates again, 
A canopy of leaves ; 
And from its darkening shadow floats 
A gush of trembling notes. 

Fairer and brighter spreads the reign of 
May; 
The tresses of the woods 
With the light dallying of the west-wind 
play ; 
And the full-brimming floods, 
As gladly to their goal they run, 
Hail the returning sun. 



TO SENECA LAKE. 

On thy fair bosom, silver lake. 

The wild swan spreads his snowy sail. 

And round his breast the rip]>les break 
As down he bears before the gale. 

On thy fair bosom, waveless stream, 
The dipping paddle echoes far, 



And flashes in the moonlight gleam. 
And bright reflects the polar star. 

The waves along thy pebbly shore. 
As blows the north-wind, heave their 
foam, 

And curl around the dashing oar. 
As late the boatman hies him home. 

How sweet, at set of sun, to view 
Thy golden mirror spreading wide, 

And see the mist of mantling blue 
Float round the distant mountain's side. 

At midnight hour, as shines the moon, 
A sheet of silver sjireads below, 

And swift she cuts, at highest noon. 
Light clouds, like wreaths of purest 
snow. 

On thy fair bosom , silver lake, 
0, I could ever sweep the oar, 

When early birds at moniing wake, 
And evening tells us toil is o'er! 



JOHN G. C. BRAINARD. 

[U. S. A., 1796- 1828.] 

THE FALL OF NIAGARA. 

The thoughts are strange that crowd 

into my brain, 
While I look upward to thee. It would 

seem 
As if God poured thee from his hollow 

hand, 
And hung his bow upon tliineawfulfront ; 
And spoke in that loud voice, which 

seemed to him 
Who dwelt in Patmos for his Saviour's 

sake. 
The sound of many waters; and had 

bade 
Thy flood to chronicle the ages back. 
And notch His centuries in the eternal 

rocks. 

Deep callcth unto deep. And what 
are we, 

That hear the question of that voice sub- 
lime ? 

0, what are all the notes that ever rung 



156 



SONGS OF THREE CEXTUEIES. 



From war's vain trumpet, by thy thun- 
dering side ? 

Yea, what is all the riot man can make 

In his short life, to thy unceasing roar? 

And yet, bold babbler, what art thou to 
' Him 

Who drowned a world, and heaped the 
waters far 

Above its loftiest mountains? — a light 
wave, 

That breaks, and whispers of its Maker's 
might. 



EPITHALAMIUM. 

I SAW two clouds at morning 

Tinged by the rising sun. 
And in the dawn they floated on 

And mingled into one ; 
I thought that morning cloud was blessed. 
It moved so sweetly to the west. 

I saw two summer currents 

Flow smoothly to their meeting, 

And join their course, with silent force, 
In peace each other greeting ; 

Calm was their course through banks of 
green, 

"While dimpling eddies played between. 

Such be your gentle motion. 
Till life's last i)ulse shall beat ; 

Like summer's beam, and summer's stream. 
Float on, in joy, to meet 

A calmer sea, where storms shall cease, — 

A purer sky, where all is peace. 



DANIEL AYEBSTEK 

[U. S. A., 1782 -1852.] 



THE MEMORY OF THE HEART. 

If stores of dry and learned lore we gain. 
We keep them in the memory of the 

brain ; 
Names, things, and facts, — whate'er we 

knowledge call, — 
There is the common ledger for them all ; 
And images on this cold surface traced 
Make slight impression, and are soon 

effaced. 



But we 've a page, more glowing and more 

bright, 
On which our friendship and our love to 

write ; 
That these may never from the soul depart, 
Wetrustthem to the memory of the heait. 
There is nodimming, noeftacement there ; 
Each newpulsation keeps therecoril clear ; 
Warm, golden letters all the tablet fill. 
Nor lose their lustre till the heart stands 

still. 



JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE. 



[u. s. 



1795-1820.] 



THE AMERICAN FLAG. 

When Freedom from hermountain height 

Unfurled her .standard to the air. 
She tore the azure robe of night. 

And set the stars of glory there ; 
She mingled with its gorgeous dyes 
The milky baldric of the .skies. 
And striped its pure, celestial white 
With streakings of the morning light ; 
Then from his mansion in the sun 
She called her eagle-bearer down, 
And gave into his might}'^ hand 
The symbol of her chosen land. 

Flag of the brave, thy folds .shall fly. 
The sign of hope and triumph high ! 
When speaks the signal-trumpet tone, 
And the long line comes gleaming on, 
Ere yet the life-blood, warm and wet. 
Has dimmed the glistening bnyonet, 
Each soldiei's eye shall brightly turn 
To where thy sky-born glories burn. 
And as his springing steps advance. 
Catch war and vengeance from the glance. 
And when the cannon-monthings loud 
Heave in wild wi-eaths the battle-sliroud. 
And gory sabres rise and fall 
Like shoots of flame on midnight's ]iall, 
Then shall thy meteor glances glow, 

And cowei'ing foes shall sink beneath 
Each gallant arm that strikes below 

That lovely messenger of death. 

Flag of the seas, on ocean wave 
Thy stars .shall glitter o'er the brave ; 
When death, careering on the gale. 
Sweeps darkly round the bellied sail, 



JOHN PIERPONT, 



157 



And frighted waves rush Avildly back 
Before the broadside's reeling rack, 
Each dying wanch'rer of the sea 
Shall look at once to heaven and thee, 
And smile to see thy splendors fly 
In triumph o'er his closing eye. 

Flag of the free heart's hojie and home, 

By angel hands to valor given, 
Thy stars have lit the welkin dome. 

And all thy hues were born in heaven. 
Forever float that standard sheet ! 

Where breathes the foe but falls before 
us, 
With Freedom's soil beneath our feet, 

And Freedom's banner streaming o'er 



JOHN PIERPONT. 

[v. S. A., 1785-1866.] 

PASSING AWAY. 

Was it the chime of a tiny bell 

That came so sweet to my dreaming 
ear. 

Like the silvery tones of a fairy's shell 
That he winds, on the beech, so mellow 
and clear, 

When the winds and the waves lie to- 
gether asleep. 

And the Moon and the Fairy are watch- 
ing the deep, 

She dispensing her silvery light. 

And he his notes as silverj'' quite, 

AVhile the boatman listens and ships his 
oai-, 

To catch the music that comes from the 
shore ? 

Hark ! the notes on my ear that play 

Are set to words ; as they lloat, they say, 
"Passing away ! passing away !" 

But no ; it was not a fairy's shell. 

Blown on the beach, so mellow and 
clear ; 
Nor was it the tongue of a silver bell. 

Striking the hour, that filled my ear, 
As I lay in my dream ; yet was it a clume 
That told of the flow of the stream of time. 
For a beautiful clock from the ceiling 

hung, 
And a plump little girl, for a pendulum, 

swung 
(As you've sometimes seen, in a little ring 



That hangs in his cage, a canary-bird 

swing) ; 
And she held to her bosom a budding 

bouquet, 
And, as she enjoyed it, she seemed to say, 
"Passing away ! passing away !" 

0, how bright were the wheels, that told 
Of the hvpse of time, as they moved 

round slow ; 
And the hands, as they swept o'er the 

dial of gold, 
Seemed to point to the girl below. 
And lo ! she had changed : in a few short 

hours 
Her bouquet had become a gailand of 

flowers, 
That she held in her outstretched hands, 

and fluijg 
This way and that, as she, dancing, swung 
In the fulness of grace and of womanly 

pride. 
That told me she soon was to be a bride; 
Yet then, when expecting her happiest 

Jay, 

In the same sAveet voice I heard her saj^, 
"Passing away ! passing awaj- ! " 

While I gazed at that fair one's cheek, a 
shade 
Of thought or care stole softly over, 
Like that by a cloud in a summer's day 
made. 
Looking down on a field of blossoming 
clover. 
The rose yet lay on her cheek, but its 

flush 
Had something lost of its brilliant blush ; 
And the light in her eye, and the light 
on the wheels. 
That marched so calmly round above 
her, 
Was a little dimmed, — as when Evening 
steals 
Upon Noon's hot face. Yet one could 
n't but love her. 
For she looked like a mother whose first 

babe lay 
Rocked on her breast, as sheswungallday ; 
And she seemed, in the same silver tone, 
to say, 
"Passing away ! passing away ! " 

While yet I looked, what a change there 
came ! 
Her eye was quenched, and her cheek 
was wan ; 



158 



SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 



Stooping and staifed was her withered 

frame, 
Yet just as busily swung she on ; 
Thegarlandbeneath her had fallen to dust; 
The wheels above her were eaten with rust ; 
The hands, that over the dial swept. 
Grew crooked and tarnished, but on they 

kept. 
And still there came that silver tone 
From the shrivelled lips of the toothless 

crone 
(Let me never forget till my dying day 
The tone or the burden of her lay), 
"Passing away ! passing away !" 



TO CONGRESS. 

A WORD FROM A PETITIONER, 1837. 

What ! our petitions spurned ! The prayer 
Of thousands — tens of thousands — 
cast. 
Unheard, beneath your Speaker's chair ! 

But ye will hear us, first or last. 
The thousands that last year ye scorned 
Are millions now. Be warned! Be 
warned ! 

"The ox that treadeth out the corn 
Thou shalt not muzzle. " — Thus saith 
God. 

And will ye muzzle the free-born, — 
The man, — the owner of the sod, — 

Who "gives the grazing ox his meat," 

And you — his servants here — your seat ? 

There 's a cloud, blackening up the sky ! 

East, west, and north its curtain 
spreads ; 
Lift to its muttering folds your eye ! 

Beware ! for bursting on your heads. 
It hath a force to bear you down ; — 
'Tis an insulted people's frown. 

Ye may have heard of the Soultan, 
And how his Janissaries fell ! 

Their barracks, near the Atmeidan, 
He barred, and fired ; and their death- 
yell 

Went to the stars, and their blood ran 

In brooks across the Atmeidan. 

The despot spake ; and, in one night, 
The deed was done. He wields, alone, 

The sceptre of the Ottomite, 

And brooks no brother near his throne. 



Even now, the bow-string, at his beck. 
Goes round his mightiest subjects' neck ; 

Yet will he, in his saddle, stoop — 
I 've seen him, in his palace-yard — 

To take petitions from a troop 
Of women, who, behind his guard, 

Come up, their several suits to press. 

To state their wrongs, and ask redress. 

And these, into his house of prayer, 
I 've seen him take ; and, as he spreads 

His own before his Maker there. 
These women's prayers he hears or 
reads; — 

For, while he wears the diadem, 

He is instead of God to them. 



And this he must do. He may grant. 
Or may deny ; but hear he must. 

Were his Seven Towers all adamant. 
They'd soon be levelled with the dust. 

And "public feeling "make short work — 

Shouldhe not hear them — with the Turk. 



Nay, start not from your chairs, in dread 
Of cannon-shot or bursting shell ! 

These shall not fall upon your head, 
As once upon your house they fell. 

We have a weapon, firmer set 

And better than the bayonet, — 

A weapon that comes down as still 
As snow-flakes fall upon the sod. 

But executes a freeman's will 

As lightning does the will of God ; 

And from its force nor doors nor locks 

Can shield you ;■ — 't is the ballot-box. 

Black as your deed shall be the balls 
That from that box shall pour like hail ! 

And when the storm upon you falls,' ■ 
How will your craven cheeks turn pale ! 

For, at its coming though ye laugh, 

'T will sweep you from your hall, like 
chaff. 



Not women, now, — the people pray. 

Hear us, — or from us ye will hear ! 
Beware ! — a desperate game ye play ! 

The men that thicken in your rear — 
Kings though ye be — may not be scorned. 
Look to your move ! your stake ! Ye 'ke 

WARNED. 



WILLIAM MOTHERWELL. 



159 



WILLIAM MOTHERWELL. 

[179S-1S35.] 

JEANIE MORRISON. 

I 'VE wandered east, I 've wandered west, 

Through niony a weary way ; 
But never, never can forget 

The luve o' life's young day ! 
The fire that 's blawn on Beltane e'en 

May weel be black gin Yule ; 
But blacker fa' awaits the heart 

Where first fond luve grows cool. 

dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, 
The thochts o' bygane years 

Still fling their shadows ower my path. 
And blind ray een wi' tears : 

They blind my een wi' saut, saut tears. 
And sair and sick I pine, 

As memory idly summons up 
The blithe blinks o' langsyne. 

'T was then we luvit ilk ither weel, 

'T was then we twa did part ; 
Sweet time — sad time ! twa bairns at 
scule, 

Twa bairns, and but ae heart ! 
'T was then we sat on ae laigh bink, 

To leir ilk ither lear ; 
And tones and looks and smiles were 
shed, 

Eemembered evermair. 

1 wonder, Jeanie, aften yet, 
When sitting on that bink. 

Cheek touchin' cheek, loof locked in loof. 
What our wee heads could think ? 

When baith bent doun ower ae braid page, 
Wi' ae bulk on our knee, 

Thy lips were on thy lesson, but 
My lesson was in thee. 

0, mind ye how we hung our heads. 

How cheeks brent red wi' shame. 
Whene'er the scule-weans laughin' said. 

We decked thegither hame? 
And mind ye o' the Saturdays 

(The scuie then skail't at noon) 
When we ran afi" to speel the braes, — 

The broomy braes o' June? 

My head rins round and round about. 

My heart flows like a sea, 
As ane by ane the thochts rush back 

0' scule-time and 0' thee. 



mornin' life ! mornin' luve ! 

lichtsome days and lang, 

AVhen hinnied hopes around our heaits 
Like simmer blossoms sprang ! 

0, mind ye, luve, how aft we left 

The deavin' dinsome toun. 
To wander by the green burnside, 

And hear its waters croon ? 
The simmer leaves hung ower our heads, 

The flowers burst round our feet. 
And in the gloamin' o' the wood. 

The throssil whusslit sweet ; 

The throssil whusslit in the wood. 

The burn sang to the trees. 
And we, with Nature's heart in tune. 

Concerted harmonies ; 
And on the knowe abune the burn 

For hours thegither sat 
In the silentness o' joy, till baith 

Wi' very gladness grat. 

Aye, aye, dear Jeanie Morrison, 

Tears trickled doun j'our cheek, 
Like dew-beads on a rose, yet nane 

Had ony power to speak ! 
That was a time, a blessed time, 

When hearts were fresh and young, 
When freely gushed all feelings forth, 

Unsyllabled, unsung ! 

1 marvel, Jeanie Morrison, 

Gin 1 hae been to thee 
As closely twined wi' earliest thochts 

As ye hae been to me? 
0, tell me gin their music fills 

Thine ear as it does mine ! 
0, say gin e'er your heart grows grit 

Wi' dreamings o' langsyne ? 

I 've wandered east, I 've wandered west, 

1 've borne a weary lot ; 

But in my wanderings, far or near. 

Ye never were forgot. 
The fount that first burst fiae this heart 

Still travels on its way ; 
And channels deeper, as it rins. 

The luve o' life's young day. 

dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, 
Since we were sindered young, 

1 've never seen your face, nor heard 

The music o' your tongue ; 
But I could hug all wretchedness. 

And happy could I die. 
Did I but ken your heart still dreamed 

0' bygane days and me ! 



160 



SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 



THOMAS HOOD. 

[1798-1845] 

THE SONG OF THE SHIRT. 

With fingers weary and worn, 

With eyelids heavy and red, 
A woman sat, in unwomanly rags. 

Plying her needle and thread, — - 
Stitch! stitch! stitch! 

In poverty, hunger, and dirt ; 
And still, with a voice of dolorous pitch, 

She sang the "Song of the Shirt !" 

"Work! work! work! 

While the cock is crowing aloof ! 
And work — work — work. 

Till the stars shine through the roof! 
It s, oh ! to be a slave 

Along with the barbarous Turk, 
Where woman has never a soul to save, 

If THIS is Christian work ! 

" W rk — work — work ! 

Till the brain begins to swim ; 
Work — work — work. 

Till the eyes are heavy and dim ! 
Seam, and gusset, and band ; 

Band, and gusset, and seam ; 
Till over the buttons I fall asleep, 

And sew them on in my dream ! 

"0 men with sisters dear ! 

men with mothers and wives ! 
It is not linen you 're wearing out, 

But human creatures' lives ! 
S titch — stitch — stitch. 

In poverty, hunger, and dirt ; 
Sewing at once, with a double thread, 

A SHROUD as well as a shirt ! 

"But why do I talk of death. 

That ])hantom of grisly bone? 
I hardly fear his terrible shape, 

It seems so like my own ! 
It seems so like my own 

Because of the fast I keep ; 
God ! that bread should be so dear, 

And flesh and blood so cheap ! 

"Work — work — work I 

My labor never flags ; 
And what are its wages ? A lied of straw, 

A crust of bread — and rags : 
A shattered roof — and this naked floor — 

A table — a broken chair — 



And a wall so blank my shadow I thank 
For sometimes falling there ! 

' ' Work — work — work ! 

From weary chime to chime ; 
Woik — work — work. 

As prisoners work, for crime ! 
Band, and gusset, and seam ; 

Seam, and gusset, and band ; 
Till the heart is sick, and the brain be- 
numbed, 

As well as the weary hand ! 

"Work — work — work ! 

In the dull December light, 
And work — work — work 

When the weather is warm and bright : 
While underneath the eaves 

The brooding swallows cling, 
As if to show me their sunny backs, 

And twit me with the spring. 

"0, but to breathe the breath 

Of the cowslip and primrose sweet, 
With the sky above my head, 

And the grass beneath my feet ; 
For only one short hour 

To feel as I used to feel. 
Before I knew the woes of want. 

And the walk that costs a meal ! 

"0, but for one short hour, — 

A respite, however brief ! 
No blessed leisure for love or hope, 

But only time for grief ! 
A little weeping would ease my heart ; 

But in their briny bed 
My tears must stop, for every drop 

Hinders needle and thread !" 

With fingers weary and worn, 

AVith eyelids heavy and red, 
A woman sat, in unwomanly rags, 

Plyia^ her needle and thread, — 
Stitch! stitch! stitch! 

In poverty, hunger, and dirt ; 
.\nd still with a voice of dolorous pitch — 
Would that its tone could reach the rich ! — 

She sang this "Song of the Shirt !" 



MORNING MEDITATIONS. 

Let Taylor preach, upon a morning 

breezy. 
How well to rise while nights and larks 

are flying, — 



THOMAS HOOD. 



'161 



For my part, getting up seems not so easy 
By half as lying. 

What if the lark does carol in the sky, 
Soaring beyond the sight to find him 

out, — 
"Wherefore am I to rise at such a fly ? 
1 'm not a trout. 

Talk not to me ofbeesandsuch-likehums, 
The smell of sweet herbs at the morning 

prime, — 
Only lie long enough, and bed becomes 
A bed of time. 

To me Dan Phoebus and his car are 

naught. 
His steeds that paw impatiently about, ■ — 
Let them enjoy, say 1, as horses ought, 
The lirst turn-out ! 

Eight beautiful the dewy meads appear 
Besprinkled by the rosy-fingered girl ; 
"What then, — if I prefer my pillow-beer 
To early pearl ? 

My stomach is not ruled by other men's, 
Aiid, grumbling for a reason, quaintly 

begs 
Wherefore should master rise before the 

hens 
Have laid their eggs ? 

AVhy from a comfortable pillow start 
To see faint flushes in the east awaken ? 
A fig, say I, for any streaky part, 
Excepting bacon. 

An early riser Mr. Gray has drawn. 
Who used to haste the dewy grass among, 
"To meet the sun upon the upland 
lawn," — 
Well, — he died young. 

With charwomen such early hours agi-ee. 
And sweeps that earn betimes their bit 

and sup ; 
But I 'm no climbing boy, and need not be 

All up, — all up ! 

So here I lie, my morning calls deferring, 
Till something nearer to the sti'oke of 

noon ; — 
A man that 's fond precociously of stirring 

Must be a spoon. 



SONG. 

Lady, leave thy silken thread 

And flowery tapestry — • 
There 's living roses on the bush, 

And blossoms on the tree. 
Stoop where thou wilt, thy careless hand 

Some random bud will meet ; 
Thou canst not tread but thou wilt find 

The daisy at thy feet. 

'T is like the birthday of the world, 

When earth was born in bloom ; 
The light is made of many dyes, 

The air is all perfume ; 
There 's crimson buds, and white and 
blue — 

The very rainbow showers 
Have turned to blossoms where they fell, 

And sown the earth with flowers. 

There 's fairy tulips in the east, — 

The garden of the sun ; 
The very streams reflect the hues. 

And blossom as they run ; 
While morn opes like a crimson rose, 

Still wet with pearly showers : 
Then, lady, leave the silken thread 

Thou twinest into flowers. 



RUTH. 

She stood breast high amid the corn, 
Clasped by the golden light of morn, 
Like the sweetheart of the sun, 
Who many a glowing kiss had won. 

On her cheek an autumn flush 
Deeply ripened; — such a blush 
In the midst of brown was born, 
Like red poppies grown with corn. 

Round her eyes her tresses fell, — 
Which were blackest none could tell ; 
But long lashes veiled a light 
That had else been all too blight. 

And her hat, with shady brim, 
Made her tressy forehead dim ; — 
Thus she stood amid the stooks, 
Praising God with sweetest looks. 

Sure, I said. Heaven did not mean 
Where I reap thou shouldst but glean ; 
Lay thy sheaf adown and come, 
Share my harvest aud my home. 



162 



SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 



W. B. 0. PEABODY. 

[U. S. A., 1799- 184S.] 

HYMN OF NATUKE. 

God of the earth's extended plains ! 
The dark green fields contented lie; 
The mountains rise like holy towers, 
Where man might commune with the sky ; 
The tall cliff challenges the storm 
That lowers upon the vale below, 
Where shaded fountains send their 

streams. 
With joyous music in their flow. 

God of the dark and heavy deep ! 
Tlie waves lie sleeping on the sands. 
Till the tierce trumpet of the storm 
Hath summoned up their thundering 

bands ; 
Then the white sails are dashed like foam, 
Or hurry, trembling, o'er the seas. 
Till, calmed by tliee, the sinking gale 
Serenely breathes. Depart in peace. 

God of the forest's solemn shade ! 
The grandeur of the lonely tree. 
That wrestles singly with the gale, 
Lifts up admiring eyes to thee ; 
But more majestic far they stand, 
When, side by side, their ranks they form. 
To wave on high their plumes of green. 
And fight their battles with the storm. 

God of the light and viewless air ! 
Where summer breezes sweetly flow, 
Or, gathering in their angry might. 
The fierce and wintry tempests blow ; 
All— from the evening's plaintive sigh. 
That hardly lifts the drooping flower. 
To the wild whirlwind's midnight cry — 
Breathe forth the language of thy power. 

God of the fair and open sky ! 
How gloriously above us springs 
The tented dome, of heavenly blue. 
Suspended on the rainbow's rings. 
Each brilliant star, that sparkles through ; 
Each gilded cloud, that wanders free 
In evening's purple radiance, gives 
The beauty of its praise to thee. 

God of the rolling orbs above ! 
Thy name is written clearly bright 
In the warm day's unvarj'ing blaze, 
Or evening's golden shower of light. 



For every fire that fronts the sun, 
And every spark that walks alone 
Around the utmost verge of heaven, 
Were kindled at thy burning throne. 

God of the world ! the hour must come, 
And nature's self to dust return ! 
Her crumbling altars must decay. 
Her incense fires shall cease to burn ! 
But still her grand and lovely scenes 
Have made man's warmest praises flow ; 
For hearts grow holier as they trace 
The beauty of the world below. 



W. A. MUHLENBERG. 

[U. S. A,] 

I WOULD NOT LIVE ALWAY. 

I WOULD not live alway : I ask not to 

stay 
Where storm after storm rises dark o'er 

the way ; 
Where, seeking for rest, I but hover 

around 
Like the patriarch's bird, and no restin^:^ 

is found ; 
Where hope, when she paints her gay 

bow in the air. 
Leaves her lirilliance to fade in the night 

of despair, 
And joy's fleeting angel ne'er sheds a glad 

ray. 
Save the gleam of the plumage that bears 

him away. 

I would not live alway, thus fettered by 
sin. 

Temptation without, and corruption 
within ; 

In a moment of strength, if I sever the 
chain, 

Scarce the victory is mine ere I 'm cap- 
tive again. 

E'en the rapture of pardon is mingled 
with fears. 

And the cup of thanksgiving with peni- 
tent tears. 

The festival trump callsfor jubilantsongs. 

But my spirit her own miserere prolongs. 

I would not live alway: no, welcome 

the tomb ; 
Immortality's lamp burns there bright 

mid the gloom. 



LADY DUFFERIX. — WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED. 



163~ 



There, too, is the pillow where Christ 

bowed his head ; 
0, soft be my sluinbei'S on that holy bed ! 
And then the glad morn soon to follow 

that night. 
When the sunrise of glory shall burst 

on my sight. 
And the full matin-song, as the sleepers 

arise 
To shout in the morning, shall peal 

through the skies. 

Who, who would live alway, away from 

his God, 
Away from yon heaven, that blissful 

abode. 
Where the rivers of pleasure flow o'er 

the bright plains. 
And the noontide of glory eternallyreigns; 
Where the saints of all ages in harmony 

meet, 
Their Saviour and brethren transported 

to greet. 
While the anthems of rapture unceas- 
ingly roll, 
And the smile of the Lord is the feast of 

the soul ? 

That heavenly music ! what is it I hear? 

The notes of the harpers ring sweet on 
my ear ! 

And see soft unfolding those portals of 
gold. 

The King all arrayed in his beauty behold ! 

0, give me, 0, give me the wings of a dove ! 

Let me hasten my flight to those man- 
sions above : 

Ay ! 't is now that my soul on swift 
pinions would soar. 

And in ecstasy bid earth adieu evermore. 



LADY DUFPERIN. 

[1807-1867.] 

THE IRISH EMIGRANT. 

I 'm sitting on the stile, Mary, 

Where we sat side by side 

On a bright May morning long ago, 

When first you were my bride. 

The corn was springing fresh and green. 

And the lark sang loud and high, 

And tiie red was on your lip, Mary, 

And the love-light in your eye. 



The place is little changed, Maiy ; 
The day 's as bright as then ; 
The lark's loud song is in my ear, 
And the corn is green again. 
But I miss the soft clasp of your hand. 
And your warm breath on my cheek. 
And I still keep listening for the words 
You nevermore may speak. 

'Tis but a step down yonder lane, 
The village church stands near, — 
The church where we were wed, Mary ; 
I see the spire from here. 
But the graveyard lies between, IMary, 
And my step might break your rest. 
Where I 've laid you, darling, down to 

sleep, 
With your baby on your breast. 

I 'm very lonely now, Mary, 

For the poor make no new friends ; 

But, 0, they love the better still 

The few our Father sends ! 

And you were all I had, Mary, 

5Iy blessing and my pride ; 

There 's notliing left to care for now, 

Since my poor Mary died. 

I 'm bidding you a long farewell, 

My Mary kind and true. 

But I 'U not forget you, darling. 

In the land 1 'm going to. 

They say there 's bread and work for all, 

And the sun shines always there; 

But I '11 not forget old Ireland, 

Were it fifty times less fair. 



WINTHROP MACKWORTH 
PRAED. 

[1801-1839.] 

THE BELLE OF THE BALL. 

Years, years ago, ere yet my dreams 

Had been of being wise and witty ; 
Ere I had done with writing themes. 

Or yawned o'er this infernal Chitty, — 
Years, years ago, while all my joys 

Were in my fowling-piece and filly ; 
In short, while I was yet a boy, 

I fell in love with Laura Lilly. 

I saw her at a county ball ; 
There, when the sound of flute and fiddle 



164 



SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 



Gave signal sweet in that old hall 

Of hands across and down the middle, 

Hers was the subtlest spell by far 

Ofall that sets young hearts romancing : 

She was our queen, our rose, our star ; 
And when she danced — Heaven, her 
dancing ! 

Dark was her hair ; her hand was white ; 

Her voice was exquisitely tender ; 
Her eyes were full of liquid light ; 

I never saw a waist so slender ; 
Her every look, her every smile. 

Shot right and left a score of arrows : 
I thought 't was Venus from her isle, 

I wondered where she 'd left her spar- 
rows. 

She talked of politics or prayers. 

Of Southey's prose or Wordsworth's 
sonnets. 
Of daggers or of dancing bears, 

Of battles or the last new bonnets; 
By candle dight, at twelve o'clock, 

To me it mattered not a tittle. 
If those bright lips had quoted Locke, 

I might have thought they murinurL'd 
Little. 

Through sunny May, through sultry June, 

I loved her with a love eternal ; 
I spoke her praises to the moon, 

1 wrote them for the Sunday Journal. 
My mother laughed ; I soon found out 

That ancient ladies have no feeling. 
My father frowned ; but how should gout 

Find any happiness iu kneeling ? 

She was the daughter of a dean. 

Rich, fat, and rather apoplectic ; 
She had one brother, just thirteen. 

Whose color was extremely hectic ; 
Her grandmother, for many a year. 

Had fed the parish with her bounty ; 
Her second-cousin was a peer. 

And lord-lieutenant of the county. 

But titles and the three per cents. 

And mortgages, and great relations. 
And India bonds, and tithes and rents, 

0, what are they to love's sensations? 
Black eyes, fair forehead, clustering locks. 

Such wealth, such honors, Cupid 
chooses ; 
He cares as little for the stocks 

As Baron Rothschild for the muses. 



She sketched ; the vale, the wood, the 
beach. 

Grew lovelier from her pencil's shading: 
She botanized ; I envied each 

Young blossom in her boudoir fading : 
She warbled Handel ; it was grand, — 

She made the Catalani jealous : 
She touched the organ ; I could stand 

For hours and hours autl blow the 
bellows. 

She kept an album, too, at home. 

Well filled with all an album's glo- 
ries, — 
Paintings of butterflies and Rome, 

Patterns for trinmiing, Persian stories. 
Soft songs to Julia's cockatoo. 

Fierce odes to famine and to slaughter, 
And autographs of Prince Leboo, 

And recipes for elder water. 

And she was flattered, worshipped, bored ; 

Her steps were watched, her dress was 
noted ; 
Her poodle dog- was quite adored ; 

Her sayings were extremely quoted. 
She laughed, — and every heart wa,^ glad, 

As if the taxes were abolished ; 
She irowned, — and every look was sad, 

As if the opera were demolislied. 

She smiled on many just for fun, — 

I knew that there was nothing in it ; 
I was the first, the only one 

Her heart had thought of for a minute : 
I knew it, for she told me so. 

In phrase which was divinelymoulded ; 
She wrote a charming hand, and 0, 

How sweetly all her notes were folded ! 

Our love was like most other loves, — 

A little glow, a little shiver ; 
A rosebud and a pair of gloves, 

And "Fly Not Yet," upon the river; 
Some jealousy of some one's heir, 

Some hopes of dying broken-hearteil, 
A miniature, a lock of hair, 

The usual vows, — and then we parted. 

We parted, — months and years rolled by ; 

We met again four summers after. 
Our parting was all sob and sigh. 

Our meeting was all mirth and laughter ; 
For in my heart's most secret cell 

There had been many other lodgers. 
And she was not the ball-i-oom belle. 

But only Mrs. — Something — Rogei's. 




"The little snow-bird still remains." — Page 165. 



WILLIAM LEGGETT. — FITZ-GEEENE HALLECK. 



16i 



WILLIAM LEGGETT. 

[U. S. A., 1802- 1839.] 

LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP. 

The birds, when winter shades the sky, 

Fly o'er the seas away, 
"Where laughing isles in sunshine lie, 

And summer breezes play ; 



And thus the friends that flutter near 
While fortune's sun is warm 

Ai'e startled if a cloud appear, 
And fly before the storm. 



But when from winter's howling 
Each other warbler 's past, 

The little snow-bird still remains. 
And chirrups midst the blast. 



plains 



Love, like that bird, when friendship's 
throng 

With fortune's sun depart, 
Still lingers with its cheerful song. 

And nestles on the heart. 



EDWARD COATE PINKNEY. 

[U. S. A., 1802 -1828.] 



A HEALTH. 

I FILL this cu]) to one made up of loveli- 
ness alone, 

A woman, of her gentle sex the seeming 
paragon ; 

To whom the better elements and kindly 
stars have given 

A form so fair, that, like the air, 't is less 
of earth than heaven. 



Her every tone is music's own, like those 

of morning birds, 
And something more than melody dwells 

ever in her words ; 
The coinage of her heart are they, and 

from her lips each flows 
As one may see the burdened bee forth 

issue from the rose. 



Aff'ections are as thoughts to her, the 

measures of her hours; 
Her feelings have tlie fragrancy, the 

freshness of young flowers ; 
And lovely passions, changing oft, so fill 

her, she apj)ears 
The image of themselves by turns, — the 

idol of past years. 

Of her bright face one glance will trace 

a picture on the brain. 
And of her voice in echoing hearts a 

sound must long remain ; 
But memory such as mine of her so very 

much endears, 
When death is nigh my latest sigh will 

not be life's, but hers. 

I fill this cup to one made up of loveli- 
ness alone, 

A woman, of her gentle sex the seeming 
paragon. 

Her health ! and would on earth there 
stood some moie of such a frame. 

That life might be all poetry, and weari- 



FITZ-GREENE HALLECK. 

[U.S. A., 1795 -1867.] 



BURNS. 

He kept his honesty and truth. 
His independent tongue and pen. 

And moved in manhood as in youth, 
Pride of his fellow-men. 



Strongsense, deepfeeling, passions strong, 
A hate of tyrant and of knave, 

A love of right, a scorn of wrong, 
Of coward and of slave, — 

A kind, true heart, a spirit high, 

That could not fear and would not bow. 

Were written in his manly eye 
And on his manly brow. 

Praise to the bard ! his words are driven, 
Like flower-seeds by the far winds sown. 

Where'er beneath the sky of heaven 
The birds of fame have flown. 



166 



SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 



Praise to the man ! a nation stood 
Beside his coffin with wet eyes, 

Her brave, her beautiful, her good, 
As when a loved one dies. 

And still, as on his funeral day. 

Men stand his cold earth -couch around, 

With the mute homage that we pay 
To consecrated ground. 

And consecrated ground it is, 

The last, the hallowed home of one 

Who lives upon all memories, 
Though with the buried gone. 

Such graves as his are pilgrim shrines, 
Shrines to no code or creed confined, — 

The Delphian vales, the Palestines, 
The Meccas of the mind. 



ON A PORTRAIT OF RED JACKET, 

CHIEF OF THE TUSCARORAS. 

Cooper, whose name is with his country's 
woven, 
First in her files, her Pioneer of 
mind, — 
A wanderer now in other climes, has 
proven 
His love for the young land he left 
behind ; 

And throned her in the senate-hall of 
nations, 
Kobed like the deluge rainbow, heaven- 
wrought. 
Magnificent as his own mind's creations, 
And beautiful as its green world of 
thought ; 

And faithful to the Act of Congress, 
quoted 
As law authority, it passed nem. con. : 
He writes that we are, as ourselves have 
voted, 
The most enlightened people ever 
known ; 

That all our week is happy as a Sunday 
In Paris, full of song and dance and 
laugh ; 
And that, from Orleans to the Bay of 
Fundy, 
There 's not a bailiff or an epitaph ; 



And furthermore — in fifty years, or 
sooner, 
We shall export our poetry and wine ; 
And our brave fleet, eight frigates and a 
schooner. 
Will sweep the seas from Zembla to 
the Line. 

If he were with me, King of Tuscarora ! 

Gazing, as 1, upon thy ])ortrait now, 

In all its medalled, fringed, and beadeJ 

Its eye's dark beauty, and its thought' 
ful brow, — 



Its brow, half martial and half diplo- 
matic ; 
Its eye, npsoaring like an eagle's 
wings, — 
Well might he boast that we, the Demo- 
cratic, 
Outrival Europe, even in our kings ! 



For thou wast monarch born. Tradition's 
])ages 
Tell not the planting of thy parent tree, 
But that the forest tribes have bent for 
ages 
To thee, and to thy sires, the subject 
knee. 



Thy name is ])rincely, — if no poet'smagic 
Could make Red Jacket grace an 
English rhyme. 
Though some one with a genius for the 
tragic 
Hath introduced it in a pantomime, 

Yet it is music in the language spoken 
Of thine own land ; and on her herald 
roll. 
As bravely fought for, and as proud a 
token 
As Cceur de Lion's of a warrior's souk 



Thy garb, — though Austria's bosom-star 
would frighten 
That medal pale, as diamonds the dark 
mine, 
And George the Fourth wore, at his court 
at Brighton, 
A more becoming evening dress thaa 
thine ; _ 



FITZ-GEEENE IIALLECK. 



167 



Yet 't is <i brave one, scorning wind and 
weather, 
And fitted lor thy conch, on field and 
flood, 
As Rob l!o3''s tartan for the Highland 
heather, 
Or forest green for England's Eobin 
Hood. 

Is strength a monarch's merit, like a 
whaler's ? 
Thou art as tall, as sinewy, and as 
strong 
As earth's firstkings, — theArgo'sgallant 
sailors, 
Heroes in history, and gods in song. 

Is beauty? — Thine has with thy youth 
departed ; 
But the love-legends of thy manhood's 
years. 
And she who perished, young and broken- 
hearted. 
Are — Rut I rhyme for smiles and 
not for tears. 

Is eloquence? — Her spell is thine that 
reaches 
The heart, and makes the wisest head 
its sport ; 
And there 's one rare, strange virtue in 
thy speeches, 
The secret of their mastery, — they are 
short. 

The monarch mind, the mystery of com- 
manding. 
The birth-hour gift, the art Napoleon, 
Of winning, fettering, moulding, wield- 
ing, banding 
The hearts of millions till they move 
as one, — • 

Thou hast it. At thy bidding men have 
crowded 
The road to death as to a festival ; 
And minstrels, at their sepulchres, have 
shrouded 
With banner-folds of glory the dark 



Who will believe, — not I ; for in de- 
ceiving 
Lies the dear charm of life's delightful 
dream : 



I cannot spare the luxury of believing 
That all things beautiful are what they 
seem, — 

Who will believe that, with a smile whose 
blessing 
Would, like the Patriarch's, soothe a 
dying hour ; 
With voice as low, as gentle, and caress- 
ii'g> 
As e'er won maiden's lip in moordit 
bower ; 

With look, like patient Job's, eschewing 
evil; 
With motions graceful as a bird's in 
air, — 
Thou ait, in sober truth, the veriest devil 
That e'er clenched fingers in a captive's 
hair ! 

That in thy breast there springs a poison 
fountain. 
Deadlier than that where bathes the 
Upas-tree ; 
And in thy wrath, a nursing cat-o'- 
mountain 
Is calm as her babe's sleep compared 
with thee ! 



And underneath that face, like summer 
ocean's. 
Its lip as moveless, and its cheek as 
clear. 
Slumbers a whirlwind of the heart's emo- 
tions, — 
Love, hatred, pride, hope, sorrow, — all 
save fear. 

Love — for thj' land, as if she were thy 
daughter. 
Her pipe in peace, her tomahawk in 
wars ; 
Hatred — of missionaries and cold water; 
Pride — in thy rifie-trophies and thy 
scars ; 

Hope — that thy wrongs may be by the 
Great Spirit 
Eemembered and revenged when thou 
art gone ; 
Sorrow — that none are left thee to in- 
herit 
Thy name, thy fame, thy passions, and 
thy throne ! 



168 



SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 



WILLIAM LLOYD GARRISON. 

[U. S. A.] 



High walls and huge the body may con- 
fine, 
And iron gates obstruct the prisoner's 
gaze, 
And massive bolts may baffle his design. 
And vigilant keepers watch his devious 
ways ; 
But scorns the immortal mind such base 
control : 
No chains can bind it and no cell en- 
close. 
Swifter than light it flies from pole to pole, 
And in a flash from earth to heaven it 
goes. 
It leaps from mount to mount ; from vale 
to vale 
It wanders, plucking honeyed fruits 
and flowers ; 
It visits home to hear the fireside tale 
And in sweet converse pass the joyous 
hours ; 
'T is up before the sun, roaming afar. 
And in its watches wearies every star. 



JOHN NEAL. 



[U. S. A.] 



I LOVED to hear the war-horn cry. 
And panted at the drum's deep roll, 
And held my breath, when, floating high, 
1 saw our starry banners fly. 
As, challenging the haughty sky, 
They went like battle o'er my soul. 
For I was so ambitious then, 
I longed to be the slave of men ! 

I stood and saw the morning light, 
A standard swaying far and free. 
And loved it like the conquering flight 
Of angels, floating wide and bright 
Aliove the storm, above the fight 
Where nations strove for liberty ; 
And heard afar the signal-cry 
Of trumpets in the hollow sky. 



I sailed with storm upon the deep, 
1 shouted to the eagle soaring ; 
I hung me from the rocky steep 
When all but spirits were asleep. 
To feel the winds about me sweep, 
And hear the gallant waters roaring : 
For every sound and shape of strife 
To me was as the breath of life. 

But I am strangely altered now : 
I love no more the bugle's voice, 
The rushing wave, the plunging prow, 
,The mountain with its clouded brow, 
The thunder when the blue skies bow 
And all the .sons of God rejoice. 
I love to dream of tears and sighs. 
And shadowy hair, and half-shut eyes ! 



GEORGE LUNT. 

[U. S. A.] 

PILGRIM SONG. 

Over the mountain wave, see where they 

come ; 
Storm-cloud and wintry wind welcome 

them home ; 
Yet, where the sounding gale howls to 

the sea. 
There their song peals along, deep-toned 

and free : 
"Pilgruns and wanderers, hither we 

come ; 
Where the free dare to be, — this is our 

home." 

England hath sunny dales, dearly they 

bloom ; 
Scotia hath heather-hills, sweet their 

perfume : 
Yet through the wilderness cheerful we 

stray. 
Native land, native land, home far away! 
" Pilgrims and wanderers, hither we 

come ; 
Where the free dare to be, — this is our 

home !" 

Dim grew the forest-path : onward they 

trod ; 
Firm beat their noble hearts, trusting in 

God! 
Gray men and blooming maids, high rose 

their song ; 



CHAKLES SPRAGUE. — HENRY SCOTT RIDDELL. 



1G9 



Hear it sweep, clear and deep, ever along : 
" Pilgrims and wanderers, hither we 

eoine ; 
Where the free dare to be, — this is our 
home ! " 

Not tlieirs the glory-wreath, torn by the 

blast ; 
Heavenward their holy steps, heavenward 

tliey past. 
Green be their mossy graves ! ours be 

their fame. 
While their song peals along ever the 

same : 
' ' Pilgrims and wanderers, hither we 

come ; 
Where the free dare to be, — this is our 

home!" 



CHARLES SPRAGUE. 



[u. 



I79I-I874.] 



THE FAMILY IHEETING. 

We are all here. 

Father, mother, 

Sister, brother, 
All who hold each other dear. 
Each chair is filled ; we 're all at home ! 
To-night let no cold stranger come. 
It is not often thus around 
Our old familiar hearth we 're found. 
Bless, then, tlie meeting and the spot ; 
For once be every care forgot ; 
Let gentle peace assert her power, 
And kind affection rule the hour. 

We 're all — all here. 

We 're not all here ! 
Some are away, — the dead ones dear, 
Who thronged with us thisancient hearth, 
And gave the hour to guileless mirth. 
Fate, with a stern, relentless hand, 
Looked in, and thinned our little hand; 
Some like a night-flash passed away. 
And some sank lingering day by day ; 
The quiet graveyard, — some lie there, — 
And cruel ocean has his share. 

We 're not all here. 

We are all here ! 
Even they, — the dead, — though dead, so 

dear, — 
Fond menioiy, to her duty true. 
Brings back their faded forms to view. 



How life-like, through the mist of years, 
Each well-renienibered face appeal's ! 
We see them, as in times long past ; 
From each to each kind looks are cast ; 
We hear their words, their smiles behold; 
They 're round us, as they were of old. 
We are all here. 

We are all here, 

Fatlier, mother, 

Sister, brother, 
You tliat I love with love so dear. 
This may not long of us be said ; 
Soon must we join the gathered dead, 
And by the hearth we now sit round 
Some other circle will be found. 
0, then, that wisdom may we know, 
Which yields a life of peace below ; 
So, in the world to follow this, 
May each repeat in words of bliss, 

We 're all — all here ! 



HENRY SCOTT RIDDELL. 

OUR MARY. 

Our Mary liket weel to stray 
Where clear the burn was rowin' ; 
And troth she was, though I say sae. 
As fair as aught ere made 0' clay, 
And pure as ony gowan. 

And happy, too, as ony lark 

The claud might ever carry ; 

Slie shunned the ill and sought the good, 

E'en mair than weel was understood ; 

And a' fouk liket Mary. 

But she fell sick wi' some decay, 
Wlien she was but eleven ; 
And as she pined frae day to day, 
We grudged to see her gaun away, 
Though she was gaun to Heaven. 

There 's fears for them that 's far awa' 

And fykes for them are flitting ; 

But fears and cares, baith giit and sma*, 

We by and by o'er-pit them a' ; 

But deatli there 's nae o'er-pitting. 



And nature's ties are hard to break. 
When thus they maun be broken ; 



170 



SONGS OF THREE CENTUKIES. 



And e'en the form we loved to see, 
We canna lang, dear though it be, 
Preserve it as a token. 

But Mary had a gentle heart, 
Heaven did as gently free her ; 
Yet lang afore she reached that part, 
Dear sir, it wad ha'e made ye start 
Had ye been there to see her. 

S.ie changed, and yet sae sweet and fair. 
And growing meek and meeker, 
Wi' her lang locks o' yellow hair. 
She wore a little angel's air. 
Ere angels cam' to seek her. 

And when she couldna stray out by. 
The wee wild flowers to gather, 
She oft her household plays wad try, 
To hide her illness frae our eye, 
Lest she should grieve us farther. 

But ilka thing we said or did 
Aye pleased the sweet wee creature ; 
Indeed, ye wad ha'e thought she had 
A something in her made her glad 
Ayont the course o' nature. 

But death's cauld hour cam' on at last, 

As it to a' is comin' ; 

And may it be, whene'er it fa's, 

Nae waur to others than it was 

To Mary, sweet wee woman ! 



SAMUEL FERGUSOX. 



THE FORGING OF THE ANCHOR. 

Come, see the Dolphin's anchor forged ; 

't is at a white heat now : 
The bellows ceased, the flames decreased, 

though on the foi-ge's brow 
The little flames still fitfully play through 

the sable mound ; 
And fitfully you still may see the grim 

smiths ranking round. 
All clad in leathern panoply, their broad 

liands only bare ; 
Some rest upon their sledges here, some 

work the windlass there. 

The windlass strains the tackle-chains, 
the black mound heaves below ; 

And, red and deep, a hundred veins burst 
out at everv throe : 



It rises, roars, rends all outright, — 

Vulcan, what a glow ! 
'T is blinding white, 't is blasting bright ; 

the high sun shines not so ! 
The high sun sees not, on the earth, such 

fiery, fearful show, — 
The roof-ribs swarth, the candent hearth, 

the ruddy, lurid row 
Of smiths, that stand, an ardent band, 

like men before the foe ; 
As, quivering through his fleece of flame, 

the sailing monster slow 
Sinks on the anvil, — all about the faces 

fiery grow, — 
"Hurrah!" they shout, "leap out, leap 

out" ; bang, bang, the sledges go: 
Hurrah ! the jetted lightnings are hissing 

high and low ; 
A hailing fount of fire is struck at every 

squashing blow ; 
The leathern mail rebounds the hail ; the 

rattling cinders strew 
The ground around ; at every bound the 

sweltering fountains flow ; 
And thick and loud the swin king crowd, 

at every stroke, pant "Ho!" 

Leap out, leap out, my masters ; leap out 

and lay on load ! 
Let's forge a goodly anchor; a bower, 

thick and broad : 
For a heai-t of oak is hanging on every 

blow, I bode, 
And I see the good ship riding all in a 

perilous road ; 
The low reef roaring on her lea ; the roll 

of ocean poured 
From stem to stern, sea after sea ; the 

mainmast by the board; 
The bulwarks down; the rudder gone; 

the boats stove at the chains ; 
But courage still, brave mariners, the 

bower yet remains, 
And not an inch to flinch he deigns save 

when ye pitch sky-high. 
Then moves his head, as though he said, 

"Fear nothing, — ^here am I !" 



Swing in your strokes in order; let foot 

and hand keep time, 
Your blows make music sweeter far than 

any steeple's chime: 
But while ye swing your sledges, sing; 

and let the burden be. 
The Anchor is the Anvil King, and royal 

craftsmen we ! 



FRANCIS MAHONY (FATHEE PROUT). 



171 



Strike in, strike in, — the sparks begin to 

dull their rustling red ; 
Our hammers ling with sharper din, our 

work will soon be sped : 
Our anchor soon must change his bed of 

fiery rich array 
For a hammock at the roaring bows, or 

an oozy couch of clay ; 
Our anchor soon must change the lay of 

merry craftsmen here. 
For the yeo-heave-ho, and the heave-away, 

and the sighing seamen's cheer, 
When, weighing slow, at eve they go far, 

far from love and home. 
And sobbing sweethearts, in a row, wail 

o'er the ocean foam. 

In livid and obdurate gloom he darkens 

down at last ; 
A shapely one he is, and strong as e'er 

i'rom cat was cast. 
trusted and trustworthy guard, if thou 

hadst life like me. 
What pleasures would thy toils reward 

beneath the deep green sea ! 
deep sea-divei-, who might then behold 

such sights as thou ? 
The hoary monsters' palaces ! methinks 

what joy 't were now 
To go plumb plunging down amid the 

assembly of the whales. 
And feel the churned sea round me boil 

beneath their scourging tails ! 
Then deep in tangle-woods to fight the 

fierce sea unicorn, 
And send him foiled and bellowing back, 

for all his ivory horn ; 
To leave the subtle sworder-fish of bony 

blade forlorn ; 
And for the ghastly-grinning shark to 

laugh his jaws to scorn ; 
To leap down on the kraken's back, where 

mid Norwegian isles 
He lies, a lubber anchorage for sudden 

shallowed miles. 
Till snorting, like an under-sea volcano, 

off he rolls ; 
Meanwhile to swing, a-bufi'eting the far- 
astonished shoals 
Of his back -browsing ocean calves; or, 

haply in a cove. 
Shell-strewn, and consecrate of old to some 

Undine's love. 
To find the long-haired mermaidens; or, 

hard by icy lands, 
Towrestle with the sea-serpent upon ceru- 
lean sands. 



broad-armed fisher of the deep, whose 

sports can equal thine ? 
The Dolphin weighs a thousand tons that 

tugs thy cable line ; 
And night by night 't is thy delight, thy 

glory day by day, 
Through sable sea and breaker white, the 

giant game to play ; 
But, shamer of our little sports ! forgive 

the name 1 gave, — 
A fisher's joy is to destroy, thine office is 

to save. 
lodger in the sea-king's halls, couldst 

thou but understand 
Whose be the white bones by thy side, 

or who that dripping band. 
Slow swaying in the heaving waves that 

round about thee bend. 
With sounds like breakers in a dream 

blessing their ancient fiiend : 
0, couldst thou know what heroes glide 

w-ith larger steps round thee, 
Thine iron side would swell with pride ; 

thou 'dst leap within the sea ! 
Oive honor to their memories who left the 

pleasant strand 
To shed their blood so freely for the love 

of fatherland, 
Who left their chance of quiet age and 

grassy churchyard grave 
So freely for a restless bed amid the toss- 
ing wave ; 
0, thougli our anchor may not be all I 

have fondly sung, 
Honor him for their memory, whose bones 

he goes among ! 



FEANCIS MAHONY (FATHER 
PROUT). 

[1805-1865.] 

THE BELLS OF SHANDON. 

With deep affection 

And recollection, 

I often think of 

The Shandon bells. 

Whose sounds so wild would 

In days of childhood 

Fling round my cradle 

Their magic spells. 

On this 1 ponder, 

Where'er 1 wander, 



172 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 


And thus grow fonder, 
Sweet Cork, of thee; 


NATHANIEL PARKEll WILLIS. 


With thy bells of Shandon, 
That sound so grand on 


[U.S.A., 1807- 1867.] 


The pleasant waters 


UNSEEN SPIRITS. 


Of the river Lee. 






The shadows lay along Broadway, — 


I 've heard bells chiming 


'T was near the twilight tide, — 


Full many a clime in, 


And slowly there a lady iair 


Tolling sublime in 


Was walking in her pride. 


Cathedral shrine, 


Alone walked she ; but, viewlessly, 


While at a glib rate 


Walked spirits at her side. 


Brass tongues would vibrate ; 




But all their music 
Spoke naught like thine; 


Peace charmed the street beneath her feet, 
And Honor charmed the air. 


For memory, dwelling 


And all astir looked kind on her, 


On each proud swelling 


And called her good as fair ; 
For all God ever gave to her 


Of thy belfry, knelling 


Its bold notes free. 

Made the bells of Shandon 


She kept with chary care. 


Sound far more grand on 




The pleasant waters 


She kept with care her beauties rare 


Of the river Lee. 


From lovers warm and true ; 




For her heart was cold to all but gold, 


I 've heard bells tolling 


And the rich came not to woo : 


Old Adrian's Mole in, 


But honored well are charms to sell, 


Their tliunder rolling 


If priests the selling do. 


From the Vatican ; 




And cymbals glorious 


Now walking there was one more fair, — 


Swinging uproarious 


A slight girl, lily-pale ; 


In the gorgeous turrets 


And she had unseen company 


Of Notre Dame : 


To make the spirit quail': 
'Twixt Want and Scorn she walked for- 


But thy sounds were sweeter 


Than the dome of Peter 


lorn. 


Flings o'er the Tiber, 
Pealing solemnly. 


And nothing could avail. 


0, the bells of Shandon 




Sound far more grand on 


No mercy now can clear her brow 


The pleasant waters 
Of the river Lee ! 


For this world's peace to pray ; 


For, as love's wild prayer dissolved in air, 




Her woman's heart gave way ! 


There's a bell in Moscow; 


But the sin forgiven by Christ in heaven, 


While on tower and kiosk 


By man is cursed alway. 


In St. Sophia 




The Turkman gets, 





And loud in air 


FROM MELANIE. 


Calls men to prayer. 




From the tapering summits 


A CALM and lovely paradise 


Of tall minarets. 


Is Italy, for minds at ease; 


Such empty phantom 


The sadness of its sunny skies 


1 freely grant them ; 


Weighs not upon the lives of these. 


But there 's an anthem 


The ruined aisle, the crumbling fane. 


More dear to me, — 


The broken columns vast and prone, — 


'T is the bells of Shandon, 


It may be joy, it may be pain, 


That sound so grand on 


Amid such wrecks to wnlk alone. 


The pleasant waters 


The saddest man will sadder be, 


Of the river Lee. 


The gentlest lover gentler there, — 



CAROLINE ELIZABETH NORTON. 



173 



As if, whate'er the spirit's key, 

It streugtlieued in that solemn air. 

The heart soon grows to mournful things ; 

And Italy has not a breeze 
But comes on melancholy wings ; 

And even her majestic trees 
Stand ghostlike in the Caisars' home, 

As if their conscious roots were set 
In the old graves of giant Rome, 

And drew their sap all kingly yet ! 
And every stone your feet beneath 

Is broken from some mighty thought; 
And sculptures in the dust still breathe 

The fire with which their lines were 
wrought ; 
And sundered arch, and plundered tomb. 

Still thunder back the echo, "Rome." 



Yet gayly o'er Egeria's fount 

The ivy flings its emerald veil, 
And flowers grow fair on Numa's mount. 

And light-sprung arches span the dale ; 
And soft, from Caracalla's baths. 

The herdsman's song comes down the 
breeze, 
"While climb his goats the giddy paths 

To grass-grown architraves and frieze ; 
And gracefully Albaiio's hill 

Curves into the horizon's line, 
And sweetly sings that classic rill. 

And fairly stands that nameless shrine ; 
And here, 0, many a sultry noon 

And starry eve, that hapi)y June, 
Came Angelo and Melanie ! 
And earth for us was all in tune, — 

For while Love talked with them, 
Hope walked apart with me. 



CAROLINE ELIZABETH NOE- 
TON. 

BINGEN ON THE RHINE. 

A SOLDIER of the Legion lay dying in 

Algiers, 
There was lack of woman's nursing, there 

was dearth of woman's tears ; 
But a comrade stood beside him, while 

his life-blood ebbed away. 
And bent, with pitying glances, to hear 

what he might say. 



The dying soldier faltered, and he took 

that comrade's hand, 
And he said, "I nevermore shall see my 

own, my native land ; 
Take a message, and a token, to some 

distant friends of mine, 
For I was born at Bingen, — lair Bingen 

on the Rhine. 



"Tell my brothers and companions, when 
they meet and crowd around. 

To hear my mournful story, in the pleas- 
ant vineyard ground. 

That we fought the battle bravely, and 
when the day was done, 

Full many a corse lay ghastly pale beneath 
the setting sun ; 

And, mid the dead and dying, were some 
grown old in wars, — 

The death -wound on their gallant breasts, 
the last of many scars ; 

And some were young, and suddenly be- 
held life's morn decline, — 

And one had come from Bingen, — fair 
Bingen on the Rhine. 

"Tell my mother that her other son shall 

comfort her old age ; 
For I was still a truant bird, that thought 

his home a cage. 
For my father was a soldier, and even as 

a child 
My heart leaped forth to hear him tell of 

struggles fierce and wild ; 
And when he died, and left us to divide 

his scanty hoard, 
I let them take whate'er they would, but 

kept my father's sword; 
And with boyish love I hung it where the 

bright light used to shine. 
On the cottage wall at Bingen, — calm 

Bingen on the Rhine. 



"Tell my sister not to weep for me, and 

sob with drooping head. 
When troops corne marching home again 

with glad and gallant tread, 
But to look upon them proudly, with a 

calm and steadfast eye. 
For her brother was a soldier too, and 

not afraid to die ; 
And if a comrade seek her love, I ask her 

in my name 
To listen to him kindly, without regret 

or shame. 



174 



SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 



And to hang the old sword in its place 
(my fatlier's sword and mine), 

For the honor of old Bingen, — dearBingen 
on the Rhine. 



"There 's another, — not a sister ; in the 

happy days gone by 
You 'd have known her by the merriment 

that sparkled in her eye ; 
Too innocent for coquetry, — too fond 

for idle scorning, — 

friend ! I fear the lightest heai-t makes 

sometimes heaviest mourning ! 
Tell her the last night of my life (for, ere 

the moon be risen, 
My body will be out of pain, my soul be 

out of [)rison) 

1 dreamed I stood with her, and saw tlie 

yellow sunlight shine 
On the vine-clad hills of Bingen, — fair 
Bingen on the Rhine. 

"I saw the blue Rhine sweep along; I 
heard, or seemed to hear. 

The German songs we used to sing, in 
chorus sweet and clear ; 

And down the pleasant river, and up the 
slanting hill, 

The echoing chorus sounded, through the 
evening calm and still ; 

And her glad blue eyes were on me, as 
we passed, with friendly talk, 

Down many a path beloved of yore, and 
well-remembered walk ! 

And her little hand lay lightly, confid- 
ingly in mine, — 

But we '11 meet no more at Bingen, — 
loved Bingen on the Rhine." 



His tremblingvoice grew faint andhoarse, 

his grasp was childish weak, — 
Hisej'es put on a dying look, — he sighed, 

and ceased to speak ; 
His comrade bent to lift him, but the 

spark of life had tied, — 
The soldier of the Legion in a foreign 

land is dead ! 
And the soft moon rose up slowly, and 

calmly she looked down 
On the red sand of the battle-field, with 

bloody corses strewn ; 
Yes, calmly on that dreadful scene her 

pale light seemed to shine. 
As it shone on distant Bingen, — fair 

Bingen on the Rhine. 



EDWARD LORD LYTTON. 



THE SABBATH. 

FRESHglidesthe brook and blowsthegale, 
Yet yonder halts the quiet null ; 

The whirring wheel, the rushing sail, 
How motionless and still ! 

Six days' stern labor shuts the poor 
From Nature's careless banquet-hall ; 

The seventh an angel opes the door, 
And, smiling, welcomes all i 

A Father's tender mercy gave 
This holy respite to the breast. 

To breathe the gale, to watch the wave, 
And know — the wheel may rest ! 

Six days of toil, poor child of Cain, 
Thy strength thy master's slave must 
be; 

The seventh the limbs escape the chain, — 
A God hath made thee free ! 

Tlie fields that yester- morning knew 
Thy footsteps as their serf, survey ; 

On tliee, as them, descends the dew, 
Tlie baptism of the day. 

Fresh glides the brook and blows the gale. 
But yonder halts the quiet mill ; 

Tlie whirring wheel, the rushing sail. 
How motionless and still ! 

So rest, weary heart ! — but, lo, 

The church-spire, glistening up to 
heaven. 

To warn theewhere thythoughts should go 
The day thy God hath given ! 

Lone through the landscape's solemn rest. 
The spire its moral points on high. 

soul, at peace within the breast, 
Rise, mingling with the sky ! 

Thev tell thee, in their dreaming school. 
Of })0WHr from old dominion hurled. 

When rich and poor, with juster rule, 
Shall share the altered world. 

Alas ! since time itself began. 

That fable hath but fooled the hour ; 

Each age that ripens power in man 
But subjects man to power. 

Yet every day in seven, at least. 
One bright republic shall be known ; 



FRANCES ANNE KEMBLE. — FRANCES S. OSGOOD. 



175 



Man's woild awhile hath surely ceased, 
When God proclaims his own ! 

Six days may rank divide the poor, 
Dives, from thy banquet-hall ; 

The seventh the Father opes the door, 
And holds his feast for all ! 



FRANCES ANNE KEMBLE. 

FAITH. 

Better trust all and be deceived. 
And weep that trust and that deceiving. 
Than doubt one heart that if believed 
Had blessed one's life with true believing. 

0, in this mocking world too fast 
The doubting fiend o'ertakes our youth ; 
Better be cheated to the last 
Thau lose the blessed hope of truth. 



JOHN STERLING-. 

[1806-1844.] 

HYMN. 

TTNSEEN Spirit ! now a calm divine 
Comes forth from thee, rejoicing earth 
and air ! 
Trees, hills, and houses, all distinctly 
shine. 
And thy great ocean slumbers every- 
where. 

Themountain-ridge against the purple sky 
Stands clear and strong, with darkened 
rocks and dells. 
And cloudless brightness opens wide on 
high 
A home aerial, where thy presence 
dwells. 

The chime of bells remote, the murmuring 
sea, 
The song of birds in whispering copse 
and wood. 
The distant voice of children's thoughtless 
glee. 
And maiden's song, are all oue voice 
of good. 



Amid the leaves' green mass a sunny play 

Of flash and shadow stirs like inward 

life; 

The ship's white sail glides onward far 

away, 

Unhaunted by a dream of storm or strife. 

Thou, the primal fount of life and peace. 

Who shedd'st thy breathing quiet all 

around. 

In me command that pain and conflict 

cease. 

And turn to music every jarringsound ! 

How longs each pulse within the weary soul 
To taste the life of this benignant hour, 

To be at one with thy untroubled whole, 
And in itself to know thy hushing 
power. 

In One, who walked on earth aman of woe. 
Was holier peace than even this hour 
inspires ; 
From him to me let inward quiet flow. 
And give the might my failing will 
requires. 

So this great All around, so he, and thou. 

The central source and awful bound of 

things. 

May fill my heart with rest as deep as now 

To land and sea and air thy presence 

brings. 



FRANCES S. OSGOOD. 

[U. S. A., 1812-1850.] 

LABOR. 

Pause not to dream of the future before 

us; 
Pause not to weep the wild cares that 

come o'er us ; 
Hark how Creation'sdeep,musical chorus, 
Unintermitting, goes up into heaven ! 
Kever the ocean-wave falters in flowing ; 
Never the little seed stops in its growing ; 
More and more richly the rose heart keeps 

glowing. 
Till from its nourishing stem it is riven. 

"Labor is worship!" the robin is sing- 
ing! 

"Labor is worship!" the wild bee is 
ringing : 



176 



SONGS OF THREE CENTUKIES. 



Listen ! that cloq^nent whisper, iipsprin 
ing 
Speaks to thy soul from out nature's 
great heart. 

From the dark cloud flows tlie life-giving 
shower ; 

From the rough sod blows the soft -breath- 
ing flower ; 

From the small insect, the rich coral 
bower ; 
Only man, in the plan, shrinks from 
his part. 

Labor is life ! — 'T is the still water fail- 
eth; 

Idleness ever despaireth, bewaileth ; 

Keep the watch wound, for the dark rust 
assaileth ;. 
Flowers droop and die in the stillness 
of noon. 

Labor is glory ! — the flying cloud light- 
ens; 

Only the waving wing changes and 
brightens ; 

Idle hearts only the dark future fright- 
ens : 
Play the sweet keys, wouldst thou keep 
them in tune ! 

Labor is rest from the son'ows that greet 
us, 

Eestfrom all petty vexations that meet us, 

Eest from sin-promptings that ever en- 
treat us, 
Eest from world-sirens that lure us to 
ill. 

Work, — and pure slumbers shall wait on 
thy pillow.; 

Work, — thou slialt ride over Care's com- 
ing billow ; 

Lie not down wearied 'neath Woe's weep- 
ing willow ! 
Work with a stout heart and resolute 
will! 

Labor is health ! — Lo ! the husbandman 
reaping, 

How through his veins goes the life-cur- 
rent leaping ! 

How his strong arm in its stalwart pride 
sweeping. 
True as a sunbeam the swift sickle 
guides. 

Labor is wealth, — in the sea the pearl 
groweth ; 

Eich the queen's robe from the frail co- 
coon floweth ; 



From the fine acorn the strong forest 
bloweth ; 
Temple and statue the marble block 
hides. 

Droopnot.thoughshame, sin, andanguish 

are round thee ; 
Bravely fling ofl" the cold chain that hath 

bound thee ! 
Look to yon pure heaven smiling beyond 

thee : 
Eest not content in thy darkness, — a 

clod! 
Work for some good, be it ever so 

slowly; 
Cherish some flower, be it ever so lowly : 
Labor ! — all labor is noble and holy ; 
Let thy great deeds be thy prayer to 

thy God. 



JONES VERY. 

[U. S. A.] 

THE PRESENT HEAVEN. 

Father ! thy wonders do not singly stand, 
Nor far removed where feet have sel- 
dom strayed ; 
Around us ever lies the enchanted land, 
In marvels rich to thine own sons dis- 
played. 

In finding thee are all things round us 
found ; 
In losing thee are all things lost beside ; 
Ears have we, but in vain sweet voices 
sound. 
And to our eyes the vision is denied. 

Open our eyes, that we that world may 
see ! 
Open our ears, that we thy voice may 
hear, 
And in the spirit-land may ever be, 
And feel thy presence with us, always 
near. 



TO THE PAINTED COLUMBINE. 

Bright image of the early years 
When glowed my cheek as red as 
thou, 



THOMAS MILLER. — JOHN KEBLE. 



177 



And life's dark throng of cares and fears 
Were swift-winged shadows o'er my sunny 
brow ! 

Thou hhishest from the painter's page, 

Robed in tlie nuinic tints of art ; 
But Nature's hand in youth's green age 
With fairer hues first traced thee on my 
heart. 

The morning's bhish, she made it thine ; 
Tlie morn's sweet breath, she gave 
it tliee ; 
And in thy look, my Columbine ! 
Each fond-remembered spot she bade me 
see. 

I see the hill's far-gazing head, 

Where gay thou noddest in the gale ; 

I hear light-bounding footsteps tread 

Thegrassy path that winds along the vale. 

I hear the voice of woodland song 
Break from each bush and well- 
known tree. 
And, on light pinions borne along, 
Comes back the laugh from childhood's 
heart of glee. 

O'er the dark rock the dashing brook. 

With look of anger, leaps again. 
And, hastening to each flowery nook. 
Its distant voice is heard far down the 
glen. 

Fair child of art ! thy charms decay. 
Touched by the withered hand of 
Time; 
And hushed the music of that day. 
When my voice mingled with the stream- 
let's chime : 

But on my heart thy cheek of bloom 
Shall live when Nature's smile has 
Hed ; 
And, rich with memory's sweet per- 
fume. 
Shall o'er her grave thy tribute incense 
shed. 

There shalt thou live and wake the 
glee 
That echoed on thy native hill ; 
And when, loved flower! I think of 
thee. 
My infant feet will seem to seek thee 
still. 

12 



THOMAS MILLER. 

EVENING SONG. 

How many days with mute adieu 
Have gone down yon untrodden sky, 
And still it looks as clear and blue 
As when it first was hung on high. 
The rolling sun, the frowning cloud 
That drew the lightning in its rear. 
The thunder tramping deep and loud, 
Have left no foot-mark there. 

The village-bells, with silver chime. 
Come softened by the distant shore ; 
Though I have heard them many a time, 
They never rung so sweet before. 
A silence rests upon the liill, 
A listening awe pervades the air ; 
The very fiowers are shut and still. 
And bowed as if in prayer. 

And in this hushed and breathless close, 
O'er earth and air and sky and sea, 
A still low voice in silence goes. 
Which speaks alone, great God, of thee. 
The whispering leaves, the far-off brook. 
The linnet's warble fainter grown. 
The hive-bound bee, the building rook, — 
All these their Maker own. 

Now Nature sinks in soft repose, 
A living semblance of the grave ; 
The dew steals noiseless on the rose. 
The boughs have almost ceased to wave ; 
The silent sky, the sleejiing earth. 
Tree, mountain, stream, the humble sod, 
All tell from whom they had their birth. 
And cry, " Behold a God ! " 



JOHN KEBLE. 

[1796- 1821.] 



MORNING. 

0, TIMELY ha]ipy, timely wise, 
Hearts that with rising morn arise ! 
Eyes that the beam celestial view. 
Which evermore makes all things new ! 

New every morning is the love 
Our wakening and uprising prove, 



178 



SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 



Through sleep and darkness safely 

brought, 
Restored to life and power and thought. 

New mercies, each returning day, 
Hover around us while we pray ; 
New perils past, new sins forgiven. 
New thoughts of God, new hopes of 
heaven. 

If, on our daily course, our mind 
Be set to hallow all we find. 
New treasures still, of countless price, 
God will provide for sacrifice. 

Old friends, old scenes, will lovelier be, 
As more of Heaven in each we see ; 
Some softening gleam of love and prayer 
Shall dawn on every cross and care. 

As for some dear familiar strain 
Untired we ask, and ask again, 
Ever in its melodious store 
Finding a spell unheard before, — 

Such is the bliss of souls serene, 

When they have sworn, and steadfast 

mean. 
Counting the cost, in all to espy 
Their God, in all themselves deny. 

0, could we learn that sacrifice, 
What lights would all around us rise ! 
How would our hearts with wisdom talk 
Along life's dullest, dreariest walk ! 

AVe need not bid, for cloistered cell. 
Our neighbor and our work farewell. 
Nor strive to wind ourselves too high 
For sinful man beneath the sky. 

The ti'ivial round, the common task, 
Will furnish all we ought to ask ; 
Room to deny ourselves ; a road 
To bring us, daily, nearer God. 

Seek we no more : content with these, 
Let present rapture, comfort, ease, 
As Heaven shall bid them, come and go ; 
The secret this of rest below. 

Only, Lord, in thy dear love 
Fit us for perfect rest above ; 
And help us, this and every day. 
To live more nearly as we pray ! 



INWARD MUSIC. 

There are in this loud stunning tide 

Of human care and crime. 
With whom the melodies abide 

Of the everlasting chime ; 
Who carry music in their heart 

Through dusky lane and wrangling 
mart. 
Plying their daily toil with busier feet, 
Because their secret souls a holy strain 
repeat. 



SIR ROBERT GRANT. 

[1814-1838] 

O SAVIOUR! WHOSE MERCY. 

Saviour ! whose mercy, severe in its 
kindness, 
Hath chastened my wanderings and 
guided my way. 
Adored be the power that illumined my 
blindness. 
And weaned me from phantoms that 
smiled to betray. 

Enchanted with all that was dazzling 
and fair, 
I followed the rainbow, I caught at 
the toy ; 
And still in displeasure thy goodness 
was there. 
Disappointing the hope and defeating 
the joy. 

The blossom blushed bright, but a worm 
was below ; 
The moonlight shone fair, there was 
blight in the beam ; 
Sweet whispered the breeze, but it whis- 
pered of woe ; 
And bitterness flowed in the soft-flow- 
ing stream. 

So cured of my folly, yet cured but in 
part, 
I turned to the refuge thy pity dis- 
played ; 
And still did this eager- and credulous 
heart 
Weave visions of promise that bloomed 
but to fade. 



DEAN OF CANTERBURY. — BRYAN WALLER PROCTER. 



179 



I thought that the course of the pilgi'im 
to heaven 
Would be bright as the summer and 
glad as the morn : 
Thou shovvedst me the path ; it was dark 
and uneven, 
All rugged with rock and all tangled 
with thorn. 

I dreamed of celestial rewards and re- 
novv'n, 
I grasped at the triumph that blesses 
the brave ; 
I asked for the palm-branch, the robe, 
and the crown, 
I asked, and thou showedst me across 
and a grave ! 

Subdued and instructed, at length to thv 
will 
My hopes and my wishes I freely re- 
sign; 
0, give me a heart that can wait and be 
still, 
Nor know of a wish or a pleasure but 
thine. 

There are mansions exempted from sin 
and from woe. 
But they stand in a region by mortals 
untrod ; 
There are rivers of joy, but they roll not 
below ; 
There is rest, but 'tis found in the 
bosom of God. 



DEAN OF CANTERBURY. 

TRUST. 

I KNOAV not if or dark or bright 

Shall be my lot ; 
If that wherein my liopes delight 

Be best, or not. 

It may be mine to drag for years 

Toil's heavy chain ; 
Or day and night my meat be tears 

On bed of pain. 

Dear faces may surround my hearth 
With smiles and glee ; 

Or I may dwell alone, and mirth 
Be strange to me. 



My bark is wafted to the strand 

By breath divine : 
And on the helm there rests a hand 

Other than mine. 

One who has known in storms to sail 

I have on board ; 
Above the raving of the gale 

I hear my Lord. 

He holds mewhen the billows smite, — 

I shall not fall. 
If sharp, 't is short ; if long, 't is 
light, — 

He tempers all. 

Safe to the land, safe to the land, — 

The end is this ; 
And then with Him go hand in hand 

Far into bliss. 



BRYAN WALLER PROCTER 
(BARRY CORNWALL). 

[1787- '874.] 

A PETITION TO TIME. 

Touch us gently. Time ! 

Let us glide adown thy stream 
Gently, — as we sometimes glide 

Thiough a quiet dream ! 
Humble voyagers are we. 
Husband, wife, and children three, — 
(One is lost, — an angel, Hed 
To the azure overhead!) 

Touch us gently. Time ! 

We 've not proud nor soaring wings; 
Our ambition, our content. 

Lies in simple things. 
Humble voyagers are we. 
O'er life's dim, unsounded sea, 
Seeking only some calm clime; — 
Touch us gently, gentle Time ! 



A PRAYER IN SICKNESS. 

Send down thy winged angel, God ! 

Amid this night so wild ; 
And bill him come where now we watch, 

And breathe upon our child ! 



180 



SONGS OF THKEE CENTURIES. 



She lies upon her pillow, pale, 
And moans within her sleep, 

Or wakenetli witli a patient smile, 
And striveth not to weep. 

How gentle and how good a child 
She is, we know too well, 

And dearer to her parents' hearts 
Than our weak words can tell. 



Welove,— we watch throughout the night 

To aid, when need may be ; 
"We hope, — and liave despaired, at times. 

But now we turn to thee ! 

Send down thy sweet-souled angel, God ! 

Amid the darkness wild. 
And bid him soothe our souls to-night, 

And heal our gentle child ! 



EICHARD MONCKTON MILNES 
(LORD HOUGHTON). 

THE BROOKSIDE. 

I W'ANDERED by the brookside, 

I wandered by the mill ; 

I could not hear the brook flow, — - 

The noisy wheel was still ; 

There was no burr of grasshopper, 

No chirp of any bird. 

But the beating of my own heart 

Was all the sound I heard. 



I sat beneath the elm-tree ; 

I watched the long, long shade. 

And, as it grew still longer, 

I did not feel afraid ; 

For I listened for a footfall, 

I listened for a word, — 

But the beating of my own heart 

Was all the sound I heard. 



He came not, — no, he came not, — 
The night came on alone, — 
The little stai-s sat one by one. 
Each on his goUlen throne ; 
The evening wind passed by my cheek, 
Tlie leaves above were stirred, — 
But the beating of my own heart 
Was all the sound I heard. 



Fast silent tears were flowing, 
When something stood behind ; 
A hand was on my shoulder, — 
I knew its touch was kind : 
It drew me nearer, — nearer, — 
We did not speak one word. 
For the beating of our own hearts 
Was all the sound we heard. 



THE MEN OF OLD. 

I KNOW not that the men of old 

Were better than men now. 
Of heart more kind, of hand more bold, 

Of more ingenuous brow ; 
I heed not those who pine for force 

A ghost of time to raise, 
As if they thus could check the course 

Of these appointed days. 

Still is it true and over-trae. 

That I delight to (dose 
Tliis book of life self-wise and new, 

And let my thoughts repose 
On all that humble happiness 

The world has since foregone, — 
The daylight of contentedness 

That on those faces shone ! 

With rights, though not too closely 
scanned. 

Enjoyed as far as known, — 
With will, by no reverse unmanned, — 

With pulse of even tone, — 
They from to-day and from to-night 

Expected nothing more 
Than yesterday and yesternight 

Had profi"ered them before. 

To them was life a simple art 

Of duties to be done, 
A game where each man took his part, 

A race where all must run ; 
A battle whose great scheme and scope 

They little cared to know. 
Content, as men-at-arms, to cope 

Each with his fronting foe. 

Man now his virtue's diadem 
Puts on, and proudly wears, — 

Great thoughts, great feelings, came to 
til em, 
Like instincts unawares ; 

Blending their souls' sublimest needs 
With tasks of every day, 



MARY HO WITT. 181 


They went about their gravest deeds, 


Sixteen summers had she seen, — 


As noble boys at play. 


A rosebud just unsealing; 




Without soriow, without fear, 


A man's best things are nearest him, 


In her mountain shealing. 


Lie close about his leet ; 




It is the distant and the dim 


She was made for happy thouglits, 


That we are sick to greet : 


For playful wit and laughter; 


For Howers that grow our hands be- 


Singing on the hills alone, 


neath 


With echo singing after. 


We struggle and aspire, — 




Our liearts must die, except they breathe 


She had hair as deeply black 


The air of fresh desire. 


As the cloud of thunder; 




She had brows so beautiful, 


But, brothers, who up reason's hill 


And dark eyes flashing under. 


Advance with hoi>efiil cheer, — 
0, loiter not, those heights are chill, 




Bright and witty sheplierd-girl, 


As chill as they are clear; 


Beside a mountain water, 


And still restrain your haughty gaze 


I found her, whom a king himself 


The loftier that 'ye go. 


Would proudly call his daughter. 


Eemembering distance leaves a haze 




Ou all that lies below. 


She was sitting 'mong the crags, 




Wild and mossed and hoary ; 





Reading in an ancient book 


THE PAT,lVr AND THK PINE. 


Some old martyr story. 


Beneath an Indian palm a girl 

Of other blood reposes ; 
Her cheek is clear and pale as pearl. 

Amid that wild of roses. 


Tears were starting to her eyes, 


Solemn thought was o'er her; 


When she saw in that lone place 


A stranger stand before her. 




Crimson was her sunny cheek, 


Beside a northern j)ine a boy 


And her lips seemed moving 
With the beatings of her heart; — 


Is leaning fancy-hound. 


Nor listens where with noisy joy 


How could I help loving? 


Awaits the impatient hound. 




On a crag I sat me down, 


Cool grows the sick and feverish calm. 


Upon the mountain hoary. 


Relaxed the frosty twine, — 


And made her read again to me 


The pine-tree dreanieth of the palm. 


That old pathetic story. 


The palm-tree of the pine. 






Then she sang me mountain songs, 


As soon shall nature interlace 


Till the air was ringing 


Those dimlj' visioned boughs. 


With her clear and warbling voice, 


As these young lovers face to face 


Like a skylark singing. 


Renew "their early vows ! 




And when eve came on at length, 




Among the blooming heather. 
We herded on the mountain-side 


* 




Her father's flock together. 


MARY HOWITT. 






And near unto her father's house 


TIBBIE INGLIS. 


I said "Good night!" with sorrow, 




And inly wished that I might say. 


Bonny Tibbie Inglis ! 


"We ''11 meet again to-morrow." 


Through sun and stormy weather. 




Sh<" kept upon the broomv hills 


I watched her tripping to her home ; 


Her father's flock together. 


I saw her meet her mother. 



182 



SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 



"Among a thousand maids," I cried, 
"There is not such another !" 

I wandered to my schohir's home, 
It lonesome looked and dreary; 

I took my books, but could not read, 
Methought that I was weary. 

I laid me down upon my bed, 
My heart with sadness laden ; 

I dreamed but of the mountain wold. 
And of the mountain maiden. 

I saw her of the ancient book 

The pages turning slowly ; 
I saw her lovely crimson cheek. 

And dark eye drooping lowly. 

The dream was like the day's delight, 
A life of pain's o'erjiayment : 

I rose, and with unwonted care, 
Put on my Sabbath raiment. 

To none I told my secret thoughts. 

Not even to my mother, 
Nor to the frieml who, from my youth. 

Was dear as is a brother. 

I got me to the hills again ; 

The little Hock was feeding : 
And there young Tibbie Inglis sat, 

But not the old book reading. 

She sat as if absorbing thought 
With heavy spells had bound her. 

As silent as the mossy crags 

Upon the mountains round her. 

I thought not of my Sabbath dress ; 

I thought not of my learning : 
I thought but of the gentle maid 

Who, 1 believed, was mourning. 

Bonny Tibbie Inglis ! 

How her beauty brightened. 
Looking at me, half abashed, 

With eyes that Hamed and lightened ! 

There was no sorrow, then I saw. 
There was no thought of sadness : 

life ! what after-joy hast thou 
Like love's first certain gladness ? 

1 sat me down among the crags. 
Upon the mountain hoary ; 

But read not then the ancient book, — 
Love was our pleasant story. 



And then she sang me songs again. 
Old songs of love and sorrow ; 

For our sufficient happiness 

Great charm from woe could borrow. 

And many hours we talked in joy. 
Yet too much blessed for laughter : 

I was a happy man that daj-. 
And happy ever after ! 



WILLIAM HOWITT. 



THE DEPARTURE OF THE SWALLOW. 

And is the swallow gone ? 

Who beheld it ? 

Which way sailed it ? 
Farewell bade it none ? 



No mortal saw it go ; — 

But who doth hear 

its summer cheer 
As it tlitteth to and fro ? 

So the freed spirit flies ! 

From its surrounding clay 

It steals away 
Like the swallow from the skies. 



Whither? wherefore doth it go? 

'T is all unknown ; 

We feel alone 
That a void is left below. 



WILLIAM LAIDLAW. 

[1780-1845-] 

LUCY'S FLITTIN'. 

'T WAS when the wan leaf frae the birk- 
tree was fa'in, 
And Martinmas dowie had wound up 
the year, 
That Lucy rowed up her wee kist wi' her 
a' in 't, 
And left her auld maister and neibours 
sae dear : 
For Lucy had served i' the glen a' the 




"And is the swallow gone?" — Page 182. 



UNKNOWN. 



183 



She cam there afore the bloom cam on 

the pea ; 
An orphan was she, and they had been 

gude till her, 
Sure that was the thing brocht the 

tear to her ee. 

She gaed by the stable where Jamie was 
stannin' ; 
Richt sair was his kind heart her 
flittin' to see. 
"Fare ye weel, Lucy!" quo' Jamie, and 
ran in ; 
The gatherin' tears trickled fast frae 
her ee. 
As down the burnside she gaed slow wi' 
her flittin', 
"Fare ye weel, Lucy !" was ilka bird's 
sang ; 
She heard the craw sayin 't, high on the 
trees sittin'. 
And the robin was chirpin 't the brown 
leaves aniang. 

"0, what is 't that pits my puir heart in 
a flutter? 
And what gars the tears come sae fast 
to my ee ? 
If I wasna ettled to be ony better. 
Then what gars me wish ony better to 
be? 
I 'm just like a lammie that loses its 
mither; 
Nae mither or friend the puir lammie 
can see ; 
I fear I hae tint my puir heart a'thegither, 
Nae wonder the tear fa's sae fast frae 
my ee. 

"Wi' the rest o' my claes I hae rowed up 
the ribl)on. 
The bonnie blue ribbon that Jamie gae 
me; 
Yestreen, when he gae me 't, and saw I 
was sabLin', 
I 'II never forget the wae blink o' his ee. 
Though now he said naething but 'Fare 
ye weel, Lucy ! ' 
It made me I neither could speak, 
hear, nor see : 
He couklna say mair but just, ' Fare ye 
weel, Lucy ! ' 
Yet that I will mind tiU the day tliat 
I dee." 

The lamb likes the gowan wi' dew when 
it 's droukit : 



The hare likes the brake and the braird 
on the lea ; 
But Lucy likes Jamie; — she turned and 
she lookit, 
She thoclit the dear place she wad 
never mair see. 
Ah, weel may young Jamie gang dowie 
and cheerless ! 
And weel may he greet on the bank o' 
the burn ! 
For bonnie sweet Lucy, sae gentle and 
peerless, 
Lies cauld in her grave, and will never 
return ! 



UNKNOWN. 

SUMMER DAYS. 

In summer, when the days were long, 
We walked together in the wood ; 

Our lieart was light, our stej) was strong. 
Sweet flutterings were in our blood, 

In summer, when the days were long. 

We strayed from morn till evening 
came ; « 

We gathered flowers, and wove us 
crowns ; 
We walked mid poppies red as flame, 
Or sat upon the yellow downs ; 

And always wished our life the same. 

In summer, when the days were long. 
We leaped the hedge-row, crossed the 
brook ; 

And still her voice flowed forth in song, 
Or else she lead some graceful book. 

In summer, when the days were long. 

And then we sat beneath the trees, 
With shadows lessening in the noon ; 

And in the sunlight and the breeze 
We feasted, many a gorgeous June, 

While larks were singing o'er the 
leas. 

In summer, when the days were long. 
On dainty chicken, snow-white bread, 

We feasted, with no grace but .song; 
We plucked wild strawberries, ripe and 
red, 

In summer, when the days were long. 

We loved, and 3'et we knew it not, — 
For loving seemed like breathing then ; 



184 



SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 



We found a iK^aven in every spot ; 
Saw angels, too, in all good men ; 

And dreamed of God in grove and grot. 

In summer, when the days are long, 
Alone I wander, muse alone. 

I see her not ; but that old song 
Under the fragrant wind is blown, 

In summer, when the days are long. 

Alone I wander in the wood : 
But (Hie fair spirit hears my sighs; 

And half I see, so glad and good. 
The honest daylight of her eyes, 

That charmed me under earlier skies. 

In summer, when the days are long, 
I love her as we loved of old. 

My heart is light, my step is strong ; 
For love brings back those hours of 
gold, 

In summer, when the days are long. 



FRANCES BIIOAYNE. 



TTpoN the white sea-sand 
There sat a pilgrim band, 
Telling the losses that their lives had 
known ; 
"While evening waned away 
From breezy cliif and bay. 
And the strong tides went out with weary 
moan. 

One spake, with quivering lip, 
Of a fair freighted ship. 
With all his household to the deep gone 
down ; 
But one had wilder woe, — 
For a fair ftxce, long ago 
Lost in the darker depths of a great 
town. 

There were who mourned their 

youth 
With a most loving ruth, 
For its brave hopes and memories ever 
green ; 
And one upon the west 
Turned an eye that would not rest. 
For far-ofi" hills whereon its joys had 
been. 



Some talked of vanished gold. 
Some of pioud honors told, 
Some spake of friends that were their 
trust no more ; 
And one of a green grave, 
Beside a foreign wave, 
That maile him sit so lonely on the 
shore. 

But wlicn theii- tales were done, 
Tlicre spake among them one, 

A stranger, seeming from all sorrow free : 
"Sad losses have ye met. 
But mine is heavier yet ; 

For a believing heart hath gone from 



"Alas!" these yiilgrims said, 

"Fcjr the living and the dead, — 
For fortune's cruelty, for love's suie cross, 

For the wrecks of land and sea ! 

But, however it came to thee, 
Thine, stranger, is life's last and heaviest 
loss." 



PtOBERT NICOLL. 
[1814-1S37.] 

WE ARE BRETHREN A'. 

A IIAFPY bit hanie this auld world would 

lie, 
If men, when they're here, could make 

shift to agree, 
An' ilk said to his neighbor, in cottage 

an' ha', 
"Come, gi'e me your hand, — we are 

brethren a'." 

I ken na why ane wi' anither should fight, 
When to 'gree would make ae body cosie 

an' riglit. 
When man meets wi' man, 't is the best 

way ava,' 
To say, "Gi'e me your hand, — we are 

brethren a'." 

My coat is a coarse ane, an' yours may 
be fine. 

And I maun drink water, while you may 
drink wine ; 

But we baith ha'e a leal heart, unspotted 
to shaw : 

Sae gi'e me your hand, — we are breth- 
ren a'. 



EICHARD II. DANA. 



185 



The knave ye would scom, the unfaithfu' 
deride ; 

Ye would stand like a rock, wi' the truth 
on your side ; 

Sae would I, an' naught else would I 
value a straw : 

Thengi'e me your hand, — we are breth- 
ren a'. 

Ye would scorn to do fausely by woman 
or man ; 

I haud by the right aye, as weel as I can ; 

We are ane in our joys, our affections, 
an' a' : 

Come, gi'e me your hand, — we are breth- 
ren a'. 

Your mother has lo'ed you as mithers can 
lo'e ; 

An' mine has done for me what mithers 
can do ; 

We are ane high an' laigh, an' w^e 
shouldna be twa : 

Sae gi'e me your hand, — we are breth- 
ren a'. 

We love the same simmer day, sunny 
and fair; 

Hame ! 0, how we love it, an' a' that are 
there ! 

Frae the pure air of heaven the same life 
we draw : 

Come, gi'e me your hand, — we are breth- 
ren a'. 

Frail shakin' auld age will soon come 
o'er us baith. 

An' creeping alang at his back will be 
death ; 

Syne into the same mither-yird we will 
fa': 

Come, gi'e me your hand, — we are breth- 
ren a'. 



RICHARD H. DANA. 

[U.S. A.] 

(From "The Buccaneer," published in 1827.) 
THE ISLAND. 

Thk Lsland lies nine leagues away. 

Along its solitary shore. 
Of "raggy rock and sandy bay, 

No sound but ocean's roar. 



Save, where the bold, wild sea-bird makes 

her home, 
Her shrill cry coming througli the 

sparkling foam. 

But when the light winds lie at rest. 

And on the gla.ssy, heaving sea 
The black duck, with her glossy breast. 
Sits swinging silently ; 
Howbeautiful ! noripples break thereach. 
And silvery waves go noiseless up the 
beach. 

And inland rests the green, warm dell ; 
The brook comes tinkling down its 
.side ; 
From out the trees the Sabbath bell 
Eings cheerful, far and wide, 
Mingling its sound W'ith bleatings of the 

flocks. 
That feed about the vale among the rocks. 

Kor holy bell nor pa.storal bleat 

In former days within the vale ; 
Flajjped in the bay the pirate's sheet ; 
Curses were on the gale; 
Rich goods lay on the sand, and murdered 

men ; 
Pirate and wrecker kept their revels then. 

But calm, low voices, words of grace, 

Now slowly fall upon the ear ; 
A quiet look is in each face. 
Subdued and holy fear : 
Each motion gentle ; all is kindly done ; — 
Come, listen, how from crime this isle 
was won. 



THE PIRATE. 

Twelve years are gone since Matthew 
Lee 
Held in this isle unquestioned sway ; 
A dark, low, brawny man was he ; 
His law, — "It is my Avay." 
Beneath his thick-set brows a sharp light 

broke 
From small gray eyes ; his laugh a triumph 
spoke. 

Cruel of heart and strong of arm. 

Loud in his sport and keen for spoil. 
He little recked of good or harm, 
Fiei'ce both in mirth and toil ; 
Yet like a dog could fawn, if need there 

were ; 
Speak mildly, when he would, or look in 
fear. 



186 



SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 



Amid the uproar of the storm, 

And by the lightning's sliarp, red 
glare, 
Were seen Lee's face and sturdy form ; 
His axe glanced quick in air : 
Whose corpse at morn is floating in the 

sedge ? 
There 's blood and hair, Mat, on thy axe's 
edge. 

THE SPECTRE HORSE. 

He 's now upon the spectre's back, 

With rein of silk and curb of gold. 
'Tis fearful speed ! — the rein is slack 
Within his senseless hold ; 
Upborne by an unseen jjower, he onward 

rides. 
Yet touches not the shadow -beast he 
strides. 

He goes with speed ; he goes with dread ! 
And now they 're on the hanging 
steep ! 
And, now ! the living and the dead. 
They '11 make the horrid leap ! 
The horse stops short ; — his feet are on 

the verge. 
He stands, like marble, high above the 
surge. 

And, nigh, the tall ship yet burns on, 

With red, hot spars, and crackling 

flame. 

From hull to gallant, nothing 's gone. 

She burns, and yet 's the same ! 

Her hot, red flame is beating, all the 

night. 
On man and horse, in their cold, phos- 
phor light. 

Through that cold light the fearful man 

Sits looking on the buniing ship. 
He ne'er again will curse and ban. 
How fast he moves the lip ! 
And yet he does not speak, or make a 

sound ! 
What see you, Lee? the bodies of the 
drowned ? 

"I look where mortal man may not, — 

Into the chambers of the deep. 
I see the dead, long, long forgot ; 
I see them in their sleep. 
A dreadful power is mine, which none 

can know 
Save he who leagues his soul with death 
and woe." 



Thou mild, sad mother, — waningmoon, 

Thy last, low, melancholy ray 
Shines toward him. Quit him not so 
soon! 
Mother, in mercy, stay ! 
r and death are with him; and 
canst thou. 
With that kind, earthward look, go leave 
him now ? 

0, thou wast born for things of love ; 

Making more lovely in thy shine 
Whate'er thou look'st on. Stars above, 
In that soft light of thine. 
Burn softer ; earth, in silvery veil, seems 

heaven. 
Thou 'rt going down ! — hast left him 
unforgiveu ! 

The far, low west is bright no more. 

How still it is ! No sound is heard 
At sea, or all along the shore, 
But cry of passing bird. 
Thoulivingtiiing, — anddar'st thou come 

so near 
These wild and ghastly shapes of death 
and fear ? 



Now longthat thick, red light has shone 
On stern, dark rocks, and deep, still 
bay. 
On man and horse, that seem of stone, 
So motionless are they. 
But now its lurid fire less fiercely burns : 
The night is going, — faint, gray dawn 
returns. 



That spectre-steed now slowly pales. 

Now changes like the moonlit cloud ; 
That cold, thin light now slowly fails. 
Which wrapped them like a shroud. 
Both ship and horse are fading into air. 
Lost, mazed, alone, — see, Lee is stand- 
ing there ! 

The morning air blows fresh on him ; 

The waves dance gladly in his sight ; 
The sea-birds call, and wheel, and 
skim, — 
blessed morning light ! 
He doth not hear their joyous call; he 

sees 
No beauty in the wave, nor feels the 
breeze. 



WILLIAM CULLEN BKYANT. 



187 



WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 

[U. S. A.] 

TO A WATERFOWL. 

Whither, midst falling dew. 
While glow the heavens with the last 

steps of day, 
Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou 
pursue 
Thy solitary way ? 

Vainly the fowler's eye 
Might mark thy distant llight to do thee 

wrong, 
As, darkly jiainted on the crimson sky, 

Thy figure floats along. 

Seek'st thou the plashy brink 
Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide, 
Or where the rocking billows rise and sink 

On the chafed ocean side ? 

There is a Power, whose care 
Teaches thy way along that pathless 

coast, — 
The desert and illimitable air, — 

Lone wandering, but not lost. 

All day thy wings have fanned, 
At that far height, the cold, thin atmos- 
phere ; 
Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land, 

Though the dark night is near. 

And soon that toil shall end ; 
Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and 

rest. 
And scream among thy fellows; reeds 
shall bend 
Soon o'er thy .sheltered nest. 

Thou 'rt gone, the ab}'ss of heaven 
Hath .swallowed up thy form ; yet on my 

heart 
Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast 
given, 
And -shall not soon depart : 

He who, from zone to zone. 
Guides through the boundless sky thy 

certain flight, 
In the long way that I must tread alone. 

Will lead my steps aright. 



THANATOPSIS. 



To him who in the love of Nature holds 
Communion with her visible forms, she 

speaks 
A various language : for his gayer hours 
She has a voice of gladness, and a .smile 
And eloquence of beauty ; and she glides 
Into his darker mu.sings with a mild 
And gentle syinj)athy that steals away 
Their sharpness ere he is aware. When 

thoughts 
Of the last bitter hour come like a blight 
Over thy spiiit, and .sad images 
Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall, 
And breathless darkness, and the narrow 

house. 
Make thee to shudder and grow sick at 

heart, 
Go forth under the open sky, and list 
To Nature's teaching.s, wliile from all 

around — 
Earth, and her waters, and the depths of 

air — 
Comes a still voice, — Yet a few days, and 

thee 
The all-beholding sun shall see no more 
In all his course ; nor yet in the cold 

ground. 
Where thy pale form was laid with many 

tears. 
Nor in the embrace of ocean, .shall exist 
Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, 

.shall claim 
Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again. 
And, lost each human trace, surrendering 

up 
Thine individual being, shalt thou go 
To ndx forever with the elements; 
To be a brother to the insensible rock. 
And to the sluggish clod which the rude 

swain 
Turns with his share and treads upon. 

The oak 
Shall send his roots abroad, and j)ierce 

thy moulil. 
Yet not to thine eternal resting-place 
Shalt thou retire alone, — nor couldst 

thou wish 
Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie 

down 
With patriarchs of the infant world, — 

with kings, 
The powerful of the earth, — the wise, 

the good. 
Fair forms, and hoary .seers of ages past. 
All in one mighty sepulchre. — The hills, 



188 



SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES, 



Rock-ribbed, and ancient as tlie sun ; the 

vales 
Stretching in pensive quietness be- 
tween ; 
The venerable woods ; rivers that move 
In majesty, and the complaining brooks 
That make the meadows green ; and, 

poured round all, 
Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste, — 
Are but the solemn decorations all 
Of the great tomb of man. The golden 

sun, 
The planets, all the infinite host of 

heaven, 
Are shining on the sad abodes of death 
Through the still lapse of ages. All that 

tread 
The globe are but a handful to the tribes 
That slumber in its bosom. Take the 

wings 
Of morning, and the Barcan desert pierce. 
Or lose thyself in the continuous woods 
Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no 

sound 
Save his own dashings, — yet the dead are 

there ! 
And millions in those solitudes, since 

first 
The fliglit of years began, have laid them 

down 
In their last sleep, — the dead reign there 

alone ! 
So shalt thou rest, — and what if thou 

shalt fall 
Unnoticed by the living, and no friend 
Take note of thy departure? All that 

breathe 
Will share thy destiny. The gay will 

laugh 
When thou art gone, the solemn brood 

of care 
Plod on, and each one, as before, will 

chase 
His favorite phantom ; yet all these shall 

leave 
Their mirth and their employments, and 

shall come 
And make their bed with thee. As the 

long train 
Of ages glide away, the sons of men — 
The youth in life's green spring, and he 

who goes 
In the full strength of years, matron and 

maid, 
The bowed with age, the infant in the 

smiles 
And beauty of its innocent age cut off — 



Shall one by one be gathered to thy 

side 
By those who in their turn shall follow 

them. 
So live, that when thy summons comes 

to join 
The innumerable caravan that moves 
To the pale realms of shade, where each 

shall take 
His chamber in the silent halls of 

death. 
Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at 

night. 
Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained 

and soothed 
By an unfaltering trust, approach thy 

grave 
Like one who wraps the drapery of his 

couch 
About him, and lies down to pleasant 

dreams. 



THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS. 

The melancholy days are come, the sad- 
dest of the year. 

Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and 
meadows brown and sere. 

Heaped in the hollows of the grove, the 
withered leaves lie dead ; 

They rustle to the eddying gust, and to 
the rabbit's tread. 

The robin and the wren are flown, and 
from the shrubs the jay ; 

And from the wood-top calls the crow 
through all the gloomy day. 

Where are the flowers, the fair young 
flowers, that lately sprang and 
stood, 

In brighter light and softer airs, a beau- 
teous sisterhood ? 

Alas ! they all are in their graves ; the 
gentle race of flowers 

Are lying in their lowly beds, with the 
fair and good of ours. 

The rain is falling where the}' lie ; but 
the cold November rain 

Calls not from out the gloomy earth the 
lovely ones again. 

The wind-flower and the violet, they per- 
ished long ago ; 

And the brier-rose and the orchis died 
amid the summer glow ; 



WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 



189 



But on tlie hill the golden-rod, and the 

aster in the wood, 
And the j^ellow sunHovver by the brook 

in autumn beauty stood, 
Till fell the frost from the clear, cold 

heaven, as falls the plague on 

men, 
And the brightness of their smile was 

gone from upland, glade, and glen. 

And now, when comes the calm, mild day, 

as still such days will come, 
To call the squirrel and the bee from out 

their winter home ; 
When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, 

thougli all the trees are still. 
And twinkle in the smoky light the waters 

of the rill, — 
The south-wind searches for the flowers 

whose fragrance late he bore, 
And sighs to find them in the wood and 

by the stream no more. 

And then I think of one who in her youth- 
ful beauty died, 

The fair, meek blossom that grew up and 
faded by my side : 

In the cold, moist earth we laid her when 
the forest cast the leaf. 

And we wept that one so lovely should 
have a life so brief; 

Yet not unmeet it was that one, like that 
j'oung friend of ours. 

So gentle and so beautiful, should perish 
with the flowers. 



TO THE FRINGED GENTIAN. 

Thou blossom bright with autumn dew. 
And colored with the heaven's own blue, 
That openest when the (juiet light 
Succeeds the keen and frosty night, — 

Thou comest not when violets lean 
O'er wanderingbrooks and springs unseen. 
Or columl)ines, in purple drest, 
Nod o'er the ground-bird's hidden nest. 

Thou waitest late, and com'st alone, 
When woods are bare, and birds are flown, 
And frosts and shortening days portend 
The aged year is near its end. 

Then doth thy sweet and quiet eye 
Look through its fringes to the sky, 



Blue, blue, as if that sky let fall 
A flower from its cerulean wall. 

I would that thus, when I shall see 
The hour of death draw near to me, 
Hope, blossoming within my heart. 
May look to heaven as I depart. 



THE BATTLE-FIELD. 

Once this soft turf, this rivulet's sands, 
Were trampled by a hurrying crowd. 

And fiery hearts and armed hands 
Encountered in the battle-cloud. 

Ah ! never shall the land forget 

How gushed the life-blood of her 
brave, — 

Gushed, warm with hope and courage j'et, 
Upon the soil they fought to save. 

Now all is calm and«fresh and still ; 

Alone the chirp of flitting bird. 
And talk of children on the hill. 

And bell of wandering kine, are heard. 

No solemn host goes trailing by 

The black -mouthed gun. and stagger- 
ing wain ; 

Men start not at the battle-cry, — 
0, be it never heard again ! 

Soon rested those who fought ; but thou 
Who mingle.st in the harder strife 

For truths which men receive not now. 
Thy warfare only ends with life. 

A friendless warfare ! lingering long 
Through weary day and weary year; 

A wild and niany-weaponed throng 
Hang on thy front and flank and rear. 

Yet nerve thy spirit to the proof, 
And blench not at thy chosen lot ; 

The timid good may stand aloof. 

The sage may frown, — yet faint thou 
not. 

Nor heed the shaft too surely cast. 
The foul and hissing bolt of scorn ; 

For with thy side shall dwell, at last. 
The victory of endurance born. 

Truth, crushed to earth, shall lise again, — 
The eternal yeara of God are hers; 



190 



SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 



But Error, wounded, writhes in pain, 
And dies among his worshippers. 

Yea, though thou lie upon the dust, 
When they who helped thee tlee in fear. 

Die full of hope and manly trust, 
Like those who fell in battle here ! 

Another hand the sword shall wield, 
Another hand the standard wave, 

Till from the trumpet's mouth is jiealed 
The blast of triumph o'er thy grave. 



FROM "THE RIVULET." 

And I shall sleep ; and on thy side, 

As ages after ages glide, 

Children their early sports shall try, 

And pass to hoary age, and die. 

But thou, unchanged from year to year, 

Gayly shalt play and glitter here : 

Amid young flowers and tender grass 

Thy endless infancy shalt pass; 

And, singing down thy narrow glen, 

Shalt mock the fading race of men. 



THE BURIAL OF LOVE. 

Two dark-eyed maids, at shut of day, 
Sat where a river rolled away. 
With calm, sad brows, and raven hair ; 
And one was pale, and both were fair. 

Bring flowers, they sang, bring flowers 

\inblown ; 
Bring forest blooms of name unknown ; 
Bring budding sprays from wood and wild, 
To strew the bier of Love, the child. 

Close softly, fondlj', while ye weep. 
His eyes, that death may seem like sleep ; 
And fold his hands in sign of rest. 
His waxen hands, across his breast. 

And make his grave where violets hide. 
Where star-flowers strew the rivulet's side, 
And bluebirds, in the nasty spring. 
Of cloudless skies and summer sing. 

Place near him, as ye lay him low. 
His idle shafts, his loosened bow, 
The silken fillet that around 
His waggish eyes in sport he wound. 



The patter of his little feet. 
Sweet frowns and stammered phrases 
sweet ; 

And graver looks, serene and high, 
A light of heaven in that young eye : 
All these shall haunt us till the heart 
Shall ache and ache, — and tears will start. 

The bow, the band, shall fall to dust ; 
The shining arrows waste with rust ; 
And all of Love that earth can claim 
Be but a memory and a name. 

Not thus his nobler part shall dwell, 
A prisoner in this narrow cell ; 
But he, whom now we hide from men 
In the dark ground, shall live again, — 

Shall break these clods, a form of light, 
With nobler mien and purer sight, 
And in the eternal glory stand 
Highest and nearest God's right hand. 



ELIZABETH BAHRETT 
BROWNING. 

[1809- iS6i.] 
THE SLEEP. 

Of all the thoughts of God that are 
Borne inward unto souls afar, 
Along the Psalmist's music deep, 
Now tell me if that any is 
For gift or grace surpassing this, — 
"He giveth His beloved sleep" ? 

What would we give to our beloved? 
The hero's heart, to be unmoved ; 
The poet's star-tuned harp, to sweep ; 
The patriot's voice, to teach and rouse; 
The monarch's crown, to light the 

brows ? 
"He giveth His beloved sleep." 

What do we give to our beloved ? 

A little faith, all undisproved; 

A little dust, to overweep ; 

And bitter memories, to make 

The whole earth blasted for our sake. 

"He giveth His beloved sleep." 



But we shall mourn him long, and miss "Sleep soft, beloved !" Ave sometimes say, 
His ready smile, his ready kiss, But have no tune to charm away 



ELIZABETH BAKRETT BROWNING. 



191 



Sad dreams that through the ej'elids creep. 
But never doleful dreuTn again 
Shall break the ha[ipy slumber when 
"He givetfi His beloved sleep." 

earth, so full of dreary noises ! 
men, with wailing in your voices ! 
delved gold, the wallers heap ! 

strife, curse, that o'er it fall ! 
God strikes a silence through you all, 
And "giveth His beloved sleep." 

His dews drop mutely on the hill, 
His cloud above it saileth still. 
Though on its slope men sow and reap. 
More softly than the dew is shed, 
Or cloud is Hoated overhead, 
"He giveth His beloved sleep." 

Ay, men may wonder while they .scan 
A living, thinking, feeling man. 
Confirmed in such a rest to keep ; 
But angels say, and through the word 

1 think their happy smile is heard, — 
"He giveth His beloved sleep." 

For me, my heart, that erst did go 
Most like a tired child at a show, 
That see through tears the mummersleap. 
Would now its wearied vision close. 
Would childlike on His love rej)ose 
Who "giveth His beloved sleep!" 

And, friends, dear friends, when it shall 

be 
That this low breath is gone from me, 
And round my bier ye come to weep. 
Let one, most loving of )'ou all. 
Say, "Not a tear must o'er her fall, — 
He giveth His beloved sleep." 



BERTHA IN THE LANE. 

Put the broidery-frame away. 

For my sewing is all done ! 
The last thread is used to-day, 

And I need not join it on. 

Though the clock stands at the noon, 

I am wenry ! I have sewn, 

Swee^, for thee, a wedding-gown. 

Sister, help me to the bed. 

And stand near me, dearest-sweet ! 
Do not shrink nor be afraid, 

Blushing with a sudden heat ! 

No one standeth in the street ! — 



By God's love I go to meet. 
Love I thee with love complete. 

Lean thy face down ! drop it in 
These two hands, that I may hold 

'Twixt their palms thy cheek and chin, 
Stroking back the curls of gold. 
'T is a fair, fair lace, in sooth, — 
Larger eyes and redder mouth 
Than mine were in my first youth ! 

Thou art younger by seven years — 
Ah ! so bashful at my gaze 

That the lashes, hung with tears. 
Grow too heavy to upraise ! 
I would wound thee by no touch 
Which thy shyness feels as such — 
Dost thou mind me, dear, so much ? 

Have I not been nigh a mother 
To thy sweetness,— tell me, dear, 

Have we not loved one another 
Tenderly, from year to year ? 
Since our dying mother mild 
Said, with accents undefiled, 
"Child, be mother to this child !" 

Mother, mother, up in heaven, 
Stand up on the jasper .sea, 

And be witness I have given 
All the gifts required of me ; — 
Hope that blessed me, bliss that 

crowned. 
Love that left me with a wound, 
Life itself, that turned around ! 

Mother, mother, thou art kind. 
Thou art standing in the room, 

In a molten glory shrined. 
That rays oH" into the gloom ! 
But thy smile is bright and bleak, 
Like cold waves, — I cannot .speak ; 
I sob in it, and grow weak. 

Ghostly mother, keep aloof 
One hour longer from my soul. 

For I still am thinking of 

Earth's warm-beating joy and dole ! 
On my finger is a ring 
Which I .still see glittering. 
When the night hides everything. 

Little sister, thou art pale ! 

Ah, I have a wandering brain, — 
But I lose that fever-bale. 



lut 1 lose that iever-bale. 
And my thoughts grow calm 
Lean down closei-, closer still 



again. 



192 



SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 



I have words thine ear to fill, 
And would kiss thee at my will. 

Dear, I heard thee in the spring, 
Thee and Robert, through the trees, 

When we all went gathering 

Boughs of Alay-bloom for the bees. 
Do not start so ! think instead 
How the sunshine overhead 
Seemed to trickle through the shade. 

What a day it was, that day ! 

Hills and vales did openly 
Seem to heave and throb away. 

At the sight of the great sky ; 

And the silence, as it stood 

In the glory's golden Hood, 

Audibly did bud — and bud I 

Through the winding hedge-rows green, 
How we wandered, I and you, — 

With the bowery tops shut in, 

And the gates that showed the view ; 
How we talked there ! thrushes soft 
Sang our pauses out, or oft 
Bleatings took them from the croft. 

Till the pleasure, grown too strong, 
Left me muter evermore ; 

And, the winding road being long, 
I walked out of sight, before ; 
And so, wrapt in musings fond. 
Issued (past the wayside pond) 
On the meadow-lands beyond. 

I sat down beneath the beech 
Which leans over to the lane, 

And the far sound of your speech 
Did hot promise any pain ; 
And I blessed you full and free, 
With a smile stooped tendeily 
O'er the May-flowers on my knee. 

But the sound grew into word 

As the speakers drew more near — 

Sweet, forgive me that I lieard 
What you wished me not to hear. 
Do not weep so, do not shake — 
O, I heard thee. Bertha, make 
Good, true answers for my sake. 

Yes, and he too ! let him stand 

In thy thoughts, untouched by blame. 

Could he help'it, if my hand 

He had claimed with hasty claim ! 
That was wrong perhaps, but then 
Such things be, — and will, again ! 
W^omen cannot judge for men. 



Had he seen thee, when he swore 
He would love but me alone? 

Thou wert absent, — sent before 
To our kin in Sidmouth town. 
When he saw thee, who art best 
Past compare, and loveliest. 
He but judged thee as tlie rest. 

Could we blame him with grave words, 
Thou and I, dear, if we might? 

Thy brown eyes have looks like birds 
Plying straightway to the light ; 
Mine are older, — Hush ! — look out — 
Up the street! Is none without? 
How the poplar swings about ! 

And that hour — beneath the beech — 
When I listened in a dream. 

And lie said, in his deep speech. 
That he owed me all esteem, — 
Ivich woril swam in on my brain 
Witli a dim, dilating pain, 
Till it burst with that lust strain. 

I fell flooded with a dark. 
In the silence of a swoon : 

When I rose, still, cold, and stark. 
There was night, — 1 saw the moon; 
And the stars, each in its place. 
And the May-blooms on the gi-ass, 
Seemed to wonder what I was. 

And I walked as if apart 

From m3-self when I could stand, 

And I pitied mj^ own heart, 
As if I held it in my hand 
Somewhat coldly, with a sense 
Of fulfilled benevolence. 
And a " Poor thing " negligence. 

And I answered coldly too. 

When j'ou met me at tlie door ; 

And I only heard the dew 

Dripping from me to the floor; . 
And the flowers I bade you see 
Wta-e too withered for the bee, — 
As my life, henceforth, for me. 

Do not weep so — dear — heart-warm ! 
It was best as it befell ! 

If I say he did me harm, 

I speak wild, — I am not well. 
All his words were kind and good, — 
He esteemed me ! Only blood 
Runs so faint in womanhood. 

Then I always was too grave, 
Liked the saddest ballads sung, 



ELIZABETH BAKRETT BROWNING. 



193 



With that look, besides, we have 
In our faces who die young. 
I had died, dear, all the same, — 
Life's long, joyous, jostling game 
Is too loud for my meek shame. 

We are so unlike each other. 

Thou and I, that none could guess 

We were children of one mother, 
But for mutual tenderness. 
Thou art rose-lined from the cold, 
And meant, verily, to hold 
Life's pure pleasures manifold. 

I am pale as crocus grows 
Close beside a rose-tree's root ! 

Whosoe'er would reach the rose 
Treads the crocus underfoot ; 
I, like May-bloom on thorn-tree, 
Thou, like merry summer-bee ! 
Fit, that I be plucked for thee. 

Yet who plucks me? — no one mourns; 
I have lived my season out. 

And now die of my own thorns, 
Which I could not live without. 
Sweet, be merry ! How the light 
Comes and goes ! If it be night, 
Keep the candles in my sight. 

Are there footsteps at the door ? 
Look out quick I3'. Yea or nay? 

Some one might be waiting for 
Some last Avord that I might say. 
Nay ? So best ! — So angels would 
Stand oif clear from deathly road, 
Not to cross the sight of God. 

Colder grow my hands and feet : 
AVhen I wear the shroud I made, 

Let the folds lie straight and neat, 
And the rosemary be spread. 
That if any friend should come, 
(To see thee, sweet ! ) all the room 
May be lifted out of gloom. 

And, dear Bertha, let me keep 
On my hand this little ring. 

Which at nights, when others sleep, 
I can still see glittering. 
Let me wear it out of sight, 
In the grave, — where it will light 
All the dark up, day and night. 

On that grave drop not a tear ! 

Else, though fathom-deep the place, 
Through the woollen shroud I wear 

I shall feel it on my face. 
13 



Bather smile there, blessed one, 
Thinking of me in the sun, — 
Or forget me, smiling on ! 

Art thou near me? nearer? so! 
Kiss me close upon the eyes, 

That the earthly light may go 
Sweetly as it used to rise, 
When I watched the morning gray 
Strike, betwixt the hills, the way 
He was sure to come that day. 

So — no more vain words be said ! 
The hosannas nearer roll — 

Mother, smile now on thy dead, — 
I am death-strong in iny soul ! 
Mystic Dove alit on cross, 
Ciuide the poor bird of the snows 
Through the snow- wind above loss ! 

Jesus, Victim, comprehending 
Love's divine self-abnegation. 

Cleanse my love in its self-spending. 
And absorb the poor libation ! 
Wind my thread of life up higher. 
Up through angels' hands of lire ! — 
I aspire while I expire ! 



A MUSICAL INSTRUMENT. 

What was he doing, the great god Pan, 
Down in the reeds by the river ? 

Spreading ruin and scattering ban. 

Splashing and paddling with hoofs of a 
goat, 

And breaking the golden lilies afloat 
With the dragon-fly on the river? 

He tore out a reed, the great god Pan, 
From the deep, cool bed of the river, 
The limpid water turbidly ran, 
And the broken lilies a-dying lay, 
And the dragon-fly had fled away. 
Ere he brought it out of the river. 

High on the shore sat the great god Pan, 
While turbidly flowed the river. 

And hacked and hewed as a great god ran 

With his hard, bleak steel at the patient 
reed. 

Till there was not a sign of a leaf indeed 
To prove it fresh from the river. 

He cut it short, did the great god Pan, 
(How tall it stood in the river!) 



194 



SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 



Then drew the pith like the heart of a 

man, 
Steadily from the outside ring, 
Tlien notched the poor dry empty thing 
In holes, as lie sate by the river. 

"This is the way," laughed the great god 
Pan, 
(Laughed while he sate by the river!) 
"The only way since gods began 
To make sweet music, they could suc- 
ceed." 
Then dropping his mouth to a hole in 
the reed, 
He blew in power by the river. 

Sweet, sweet, sweet, Pan, 

Piercing sweet by the river ! 
Blinding sweet, great god Pan ! 
The sun on the hill forgot to die. 
And the lilies revived, and the dragon-fly 

Came back to dream on the river. 

Yet half a beast is the great god Pan, 
To laugh, as he sits by the river. 

Making a poet out of a man. 

The true gods sigh for the cost and the 
pain, — 

For the reed that grows nevermore again 
As a reed with the reeds of the river. 



COWPER'S GRAVE. 

It is a place where poets crowned may 

feel the heart's decaying. 
It is a place where happy saints may 

weep amid their praying : 
Yet let the grief and humbleness, as low 

as .silence languish ! 
Earth surely now may give her ralm to 

whom she gave her anguish. 

poets! from a maniac's tongue was 

poured the deathless singing ! 
Christians ! at your cross of hope a 

hopeless hand was clinging ! 
men ! this man in brotherhood your 

weai-y paths beguiling, 
Groaned inly while he taught you peace, 

and died while ye were smiling ! 

And now, what time ye all may read 
through dimming tears his story, 

How discord on the nuisic fell, and dark- 
ness on the glory, 



And how, when one by one sweet sounds 
and wandering lights departed, 

He wore no less a loving face because so 
broken-hearted ; 

He shall be strong to sanctify the poet's 

high vocation. 
And bow the meekest Christian down in 

meeker adoration ; 
Nor ever shall he be, in praise, by wise 

or good forsaken ; 
Named softly as the household name of 

one whom God hath taken. 

With quiet sadness and no gloom I learn 

to think upon him. 
With meekness that is gratefulness to 

God whose heaven hath won him, — 
Who suffered once the madness-cloud to 

His own love to blind him ; 
But gently led the blind along where 

breath and bird could find him ; 

And wrought within his shattered brain 
such quick poetic senses 

As hills have language for, and stars 
harmonious influences ! 

The pulse of dew upon the grass kept 
his within its number ; 

And silent shadows from the trees re- 
freshed him like a slumber. 

Wild timid hares were drawn from woods 

to share his home-cares.ses, 
Uplooking to his human eyes with sylvan 

tendernesses : 
The very world, by God's constraint, 

from falsehood's ways removing, 
Its women and its men became, beside 

him, true and loving. 

But though in blindness he remained 

unconscious of that guiding. 
And things provided came without the 

sweet sense of providing, 
He testified this solemn truth, while 

frenzy desolated, — 
Nor man nor nature satisfy whom only 

God created ! 

Like a sick child that knoweth not his 

mother while .she bles.ses, 
And drops upon his burning brow the 

coolness of her kisses ; 
That turns his fevered eyes around, "My 

mother! where 's my mother?" — 
As if such tender words and deeds could 

come from any other I — • 



WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY. — ALFRED TENNYSON. 195 



The fever gone, with leaiis of heart he 

sees lier bending o'er him ; 
Her face all pale from watchful love, the 

un weary love she bore him! — 
Thus woke the poet iiom the dream his 

life's long fever gave him, ' 
Beneath those deep pathetic Eyes, which 

closed in death to save him ! 

Thus ? 0, not tJms ! no type of earth can 

image that awaking. 
Wherein he scarcely heard the chant of 

seraphs, round him breaking. 
Or felt the new immortal throb of soul 

from body parted ; 
But felt those eyes alone, and knew "My 

Saviour! not deserted!" 

Deserted! who hath dreamt that when 

the cross in darkness rested 
Upon the Victim's hidden face, no love 

was manifested ? 
What frantic hands outstretched have 

e'er the atoning drops averted. 
What tears have washed them from the 

soul, that one should be deserted ? 

Deserted ! God could separate from his 

own essence rather : 
And Adam's sins have swept between the 

righteous Son and Father ; 
Yea, once, Immanuel's orjihaned cry his 

universe hath shaken, — 
It went up single, echoless, "My God, I 

am forsaken !" 

It went up from the Holy's lips amid his 

lost creation. 
That, of the lost, no son should use those 

words of desolation ; 
Tliat earth's worst frenzies, marring hojie, 

should mar not hope's fruition, 
And I, on Cowper's grave, should see his 

rapture in a vision ! 



WILLIAM MAKEPEACE 
THACKERAY. 

[1811-1863.] 

AT THE CHURCH GATE. 

Although I enter not, 
Yet round aliout the spot 
Ofttimes I hover; 



And near the sacred gate, 

With longing eyes I wait, 

Expectant of her. 

The minster bell tolls out 
Above the city's rout, 

And noise and humming; 
They 've hushed the minster bell : 
The organ 'gins to swell ; 

She 's coming, she 's coming ! 

My lady comes at last. 
Timid and stepping fast. 

And hastening liither, 
With modest eyes downcast, 
She comes, — .she 's here, she 's past, 

May Heaven go with her ! 

Kneel undisturbed, fair saint I 
Pour out your praise or plaint, 

Meekly and duly ; 
I will not enter there, 
To sully your pure prayer 

With thoughts unruly. 

But suffer me to pace 
Round the forbidden place, 

Lingering a minute 
Like outcast spirits who wait 
And see through heaven's gate 

Angels within it. 



ALFRED TENNYSON. 

MARIANA. 

With blackest moss the flower-plots 

Were thickly crusted, one and all, 

The rusted naUs fell from the knots 

That held the peach to the garden-wall. 
The broken sheds looked sad and strange, 
Unlifted was the clinking latch. 
Weeded and worn the ancient thatch 
Upon the lonely moated grange. 

She only said, "My life is dreary, 

He Cometh not," she said ; 
She said, "I am aweary, aweary; 
I would that I were dead ! " 

Her tears fell with the dews at even ; 

Her tears fell ere the dews were dried ; 
She could not look on the sweet heaven, 

Either at morn or eventide. 



196 



SONGS OF THREE CENTUKIES. 



After the flitting of the hats, 

When thickest dark did trance the sky, 
She drew her casement-curtain by. 
And gkmced athwart the glooming liats. 
She only said, "The night is dreary. 

He cometh not," she said; 

She said, "I am aweary, aweary, 

I would that I were dead !" 

Upon the middle of the night. 

Waking she heard the night-fowl crow ; 
Tile cock sung out an hour ere light : 

From the dark fen the oxen's low 
Came to her : without hope of change, 
lu sleep she seemed to walk forlorn. 
Till cold winds woke the gray-eyed morn 
About the lonely moated grange. 

She only said, "The. day is dreary, 

He cometh not," she said ; 
She saiil, ' ' I am aweary, aweary, 
And I would that I were dead !" 

About a stone-cast from the wall 

A sluice with blackened waters slept, 
And o'er it many, round and small. 

The clustered marish-mosses crept. 
Hard by a poplar shook alway. 

All silver-green with gnarled bark, 
For leagues no other tree did dark 
The level waste, the rounding gray. 
She oidy said, "My life is dreary, 

He cometh not," she said ; 

She said, "1 am aweary, aweary, 

I would that I were dead !" 

And ever when the moon was low, 

And the shrill winds were up and away, 
In the white curtain, to and and fro, 

She saw the gusty shadow sway. 
But when the moon was very low. 

And wild winds bound within their cell. 
The shadow of the poplar fell 
Upon her bed, across her brow. 

She only said, "The night is dreary, 

He cometh not," she said ; 

She said, "I am aweary, aweary, 

I would that I were dead !" 

All day within the dreamy house. 
The doors upon their hinges creaked. 

The blue fly sung i' the pane ; the mouse 
Behind the mouldering wainscot 
shrieked, 

Or from the crevice peered about. 

Old faces glimmered through the doors. 
Old footsteps trod the upper floors. 

Old voices called her from without. 



She only said, "My life is dreary, 
He cometh not," she said; 

She said, "I am aweaiy, aweary, 
I would that I were dead !" 

The sparrow's chirrup on the roof. 

The slow clock ticking, and the sound 
Which to the wooing wind aloof 

The poplar made, did all confound 

Her sense ; but most she loathed the hour 

When the thick -moted sunbeam lay 

Athwart the chambers, and the day 

Was sloping toward his western bower. 

Then, said she, "I am very dreary, 

He will not come," she said ; 

She wept, "I am aweary, aweary, 

God, that 1 were dead!" 



"BREAK, BREAK, BREAK I" 

Break, break, break. 

On tiiy cold gray stones, Sea ! 
And I would that my tongue could utter 

The thoughts that arise in me. 

well for the fisherman's boy, 

That he sliouts with his sister at play ! 

well for the sailor lad. 

That he sings in his boat on the bay ! 

And the stately ships go on 
To their haven under the hill ; 

But for the touch of a vanished hand. 
And the sound of a voice that is still ! 

Break, break, break. 

At the foot of thy crags, Sea ! 
But the tender gi-ace of a day that is dead 

Will never come back to me. 



I CTJMB the hill : from end to end 
Of all the landscape underneath, 
1 find no place that does not breathe 

Some gracious memory of my friend ; 

No gray old grange, or lonely fold, 
Or low morass and whispering reed, 
Or simple stile from mead to mead, 

Or sheepwalk up the windy wold ; 

Nor hoary knoll of ash and haw 
That hears the latest linnet ti'ill. 
Nor quarry trenched along the hill. 

And haunted by the wrangling daw. 




5REAK, BREAK, BREAK." — Page I96. 



ALFRED TENNYSON. 



197 



TTnwatehed, the garden bough shall sway, 
The tender blossom flutter down ; 
Unloved, that beech will gather brown. 

This maple burn itself away ; 

Unloved, the sunflower, shining fair, 
Ray round with flames her disk of seed, 
And many a rose-carnation feed 

With summer spice the humming air; 

Unloved, by many a sandy bar, 

The brook shall babble down the plain, 
At noon or when the lesser Wain 

Is twisting round the polar star ; 

Uncared for, gird the windy grove, 
Andflood the haunts of hernandcrake ; 
Or into silver arrows break 

The sailing moon in creek and cove ; 

Till from the garden and the wild 

A fresh association blow. 

And year by year the landscape grow 
Familiar to the stranger's child ; 

As year by year the laborer tills 

His wonted glebe, or lops the glades ; 
And year by year our memoiy fades 

From all the circle of the hills. 



DOUBT. 

You say, but with no touch of scorn, 
Sweet-hearted, you, whose light-blue 

eyes 
Are tender over drowning flies, 

You tell me, doubt is Devil-born. 

I know not : one indeed I knew 
In many a subtle question versed. 
Who touched a jarring lyre at first, 

But ever strove to make it true : 

Perplext in faith, but pure in deeds, 
At last lie beat his music out. 
There lives more faith in honest doubt. 

Believe me, than in half the creeds. 

He fought his doubts and gathered 
strength. 
He would not make his judgment blind. 
He faced the spectres of the mind 

And laid them : thus he came at length 

To find a stronger faith his own ; 
And Power was with him in the night, 



AVhich makes the darkness and the 
light, 
And dwells not in the light alone, 

But in the darkness and the cloud. 
As over Sinai's peaks of old. 
While Israel made their gods of gold. 

Although the trumpet blew so loud. 



THE LARGER HOPE. 

YET we trust that somehow good 
Will be the final goal of ill. 
To pangs of nature, sins of will, 

Defects of doubt, and taints of blood ; 

That nothing walks with aimless feet ; 
That not one life shall be destroyed, 
Or cast as rubbish to the void, 

When God hath made the pile complete ; 

That not a worm is cloven in vain ; 
That not a moth with vain desire 
Is shrivelled in a fruitless fire, 

Or but subserves another's gain. 

Behold, we know not anji:hing ; 
I can but trust that good shall fall 
At last — far ott' — at last, to all. 

And every winter change to spring. 



1 my dream : but what am I ? 
nfant crying in the night : 



So runs 

An infant crying ... ^...^ ...^..^ . 

An infant crying for the light: 
And with no language but a cry. 



The wish, that of the living whole 
No life may fail beyond the grave, 
Derives it not from what we have 

The likest God within the soul ? 

Are God and Nature, then, at strife, 
That Nature lends such evil dreams? 
So careful of the type she seems, 

So careless of the single life ; 

That I, considering everywhere 
Her secret meaning in her deeds. 
And finding that of fifty seeds 

She often brings but one to bear, 

I falter where I fii-mly trod, 
And falling with my weight of cares 



198 



SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 



Upon the great world's altar-stairs 
That slope through darkness up to God, 

I stretch lame hands of faith, and grope, 
And gather dust and chaff, and call 
To what I feel is Lord of all, 

And faintly trust the larger hope. 



"So careful of the type?" but no. 
From scarped cliff and quarried stone 
She cries, ' ' A thousand types are gone : 

I care for nothing, all shall go. 

"Thou makest thine appeal to me : 
I bring to life, I bring to death : 
The spirit does but mean the breath : 

I know no more." And he, shall he, 

Man, her last work, who seemed so fair. 
Such splendid purpose in his eyes. 
Who rolled the psalm to wintry skies, 

Who built him fanes of fruitless prayer, 

Who trusted God was love indeed 
And love Creation's final law, — 
Though Nature, red in tooth and claw 

With ravin, shrieked against his creed, — 

Who loved, who suffered countless ills. 
Who battled for the True, the Just, 
Be blown about the desert dust, 

Or sealed within the iron hills? 

No more? A monster then, a dream, 
A discord. Dragons of the prime. 
That tare each other in their slime. 

Were mellow music matched with him. 

life as futile, then, as frail ! 

for thy voice to soothe and bless ! 

What hope of answer, or redress? 
Behind the veil, behind the veil. 



GARDEN SONG. 

Come into the garden, Maud, 

For the black bat, night, has flown, 

Come into the garden, Maud, 
I am here at the gate alone ; 

And the woodbine spices are wafted 
abroad, 
And the musk of the roses blown. 



For a breeze of morning moves. 
And the planet of Love is on high. 

Beginning to faint in the light that she 
loves 
On a bed of daffodil sky. 

To faint in the light of the sun she loves, 
To faint in his light, and to die. 

All night have the roses heard 

The thite, violin, bassoon ; 
All night has the casement jessamine 
stirred 

To the dancers dancing in tune ; 
Till a silence fell with the waking bird, 

And a hush with the setting moon. 

I said to the lily, "There is but one 

With whom she has heart to be gay. 
When will the dancers leave her alone ? 

She is weary of dance and play." 
Now half to the setting moon are gone, 

And half to the rising day ; 
Low on the sand and loud on the stone 

The last wheel echoes away. 

I said to the rose, "The brief night goes 
In babble and revel and wine. 

young lord-lovei', what sighs are those, 
For one that will never be thine ? 

But mine, but mine," so I sware to the 
rose, 
"For ever and ever, mine." 

And the soul of the rose went into my 
blood. 
As the music clashed in the hall ; 
And long by the garden lake I stood. 

For I heard your rivulet fall 
From the lake to the meadow and on to 
the wood. 
Our wood, that is dearer than all ; 

From the meadow your walks have left 
so sweet 

That whenever a March-wind sighs 
He sets the jewel-print of your feet 

In violets blue as your eyes, 
To the woody hollows in which we meet 

And the valleys of Paradise. 

The slender acacia would not shake 
One long milk-bloom on the tree ; 

The white lake-blossom fell into the lake 
As the pimpernel dozed on the lea ; 

But the rose was awake all night for your 
sake. 



EALPH AVALDO EMEKSON. 



199 



Knowing your promise to me ; 
The lilies and roses were all awake, 
They sighed for the dawn and thee. 

Queen rose of the rosebud garden of girls, 
Come hither, the dances are done. 

In gloss of satin and glimmer of pearls, 
Queen lily and rose in one ; 

Shine out, little head, sunning over with 
curls. 
To the Howers, and be their sun. 

There has fallen a, splendid tear 

From the passion-flower at the gate. 
She is coming, mj' dove, my dear ; 

She is coming, my life, my fate ; 
The red rose cries, "She is near, she is 
near" ; 

And the white rose weeps, "She is 
late" ; 
The larkspur listens, "I hear, I hear" ; 

And the lily whispers, "1 wait." 

She is coming, my own, my sweet ; 

Were it ever so airy a tread, 
Ikly heart would hear her and beat. 

Were it earth in an earthy bed ; 
My dust would hear her and beat, 

Had I lain for a century dead ; 
Would start and tremble under her feet. 

And blossom in purple and red. 



BUGLE SONG. 

The splendor falls on castle walls 
And snowy summits ohl in story : 

The long light shakes across the lakes, 
And the wild cataract leaps in glory. 

Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes 

flying, 

Blow, bugle ; answer, echoes, dying, dy- 
ing, dying. 

hark, hear! how thin and clear. 

And thinner, clearer, farther going ! 
sweet and far from cliff and scar 

The horns of Elfland faintly blowing! 
Blow, let us hear the purple glens reply- 
ing: 
Blow, bugle ; answer, echoes, dying, dy- 
ing, dying. 

love, they die in yon rich sky. 
They faint on hill or field or i-iver: 

Our echoes roll from soul to soul. 
And grow forever and forever. 



Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes 
flying, 

And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dy- 
ing, dying. 



RALPH WALDO EMERSON. 

[U. S. A.] 

THE APOLOGY. 

Think me not unkind and rude. 
That I walk alone in grove and glen ; 

I go to the god of the wood 
To fetch his word to men. 

Tax not my sloth that I 

Fold my arms beside the brook; 
Each cloud that floated in the sky 

Writes a letter in my book. 

Chide me not, laborious band. 
For the idle flowers I brought; 

Every aster in my hand 

Goes home loadt^d with a thought. 

There was never mysteiy 

But 't is figured in the flowers ; 

Was never secret history 

But birds tell it in the bowers. 

One harvest fiom thy field 

Homeward brought the oxen strong ; 
A second crop thy acres yield, 

Which I gather in a song. 



TO EVA. 

fair and stately maid, whose eyes 
Were kindled in theu])per skies 

At the same torch that lighted mine; 
For so I must interpret still 
Thy sweet dominion o'er my will, 

A sympathy divine. 

Ah, let me blameless gaze upon 
Features that seem at lieart my own ; 

Nor fear those watchful sentinels. 
Who charm the more their glance forbids, 
Chaste-glowing, underneath their lids, 

With fire that draws while it repels. 



200 



SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 



THINE EYES STILL SHONE. 

Thine eyes still shone for me, though far 
I lonely roved the land or sea: 

As I behold yon evening star, 
Which yet beholds not me. 

This morn I climbed the misty hill. 
And roamed the pastures through ; 

How danced thy form before my path, 
Amidst the deep-eyed dew ! 

When the red-bird spread his sable wing, 
And showed his side of Hame, — 

W hen the rosebmi ripened to the rose, — 
In both I read thy name. 



EACH AND ALL. 

Little thinks, in the field, yon red- 
cloaked clown 
Of thee from the hill-top looking down ; 
Tlie heifer that lows in the upland farm. 
Far-heard, lows not thine ear to charm ; 
The sexton, tolling his bell at noon. 
Deems not that great Napoleon 
Stops his horse, and lists with delight. 
Whilst his files sweep round yon Alpine 

height ; 
Nor knowest thou what argument 
Thy life to thy neighbor's creed has lent. 
All are needed by each one ; 
Nothing is fair or good alone. 
I thought the sparrow's note from heaven, 
Singing at dawn on the alder bough ; 
I brought him home, in his nest, at even ; 
He sings the song, but it pleases not now, 
For I did not bring home the river and 

sky; — 
He sang to my ear, — they sang to my 

eye. 
The delicate shells lay on the shore ; 
The bubbles of the latest wave 
Fresh pearls to their enamel gave ; 
And the bellowing of the savage sea 
Greeted their safe escape to me. 
I wiped away the weeds and foam, 
] fetched my sea-born treasures home ; 
But the poor, unsightly, noisome things 
Had left their beauty on the shore. 
With the sun and the sand and the wild 

uproar. 
The lover watched his graceful maid, 
As mid the virgin train she strayed, 
Nor knew her beauty's best attire 



I Was woven still by the snow-white choir. 
I At last she came to his hermitage, 

Like the bird from the woodlands to the 
cage ; — 

The gay enchantment was undone, 

A gentle wife, but fairy none. 

Then I said, ' ' I covet truth ; 

Beauty is unripe childhood's cheat ; 

I leave it belund with the games of 
youth." 

As I spoke, beneath my feet 

The ground-pine curled its pretty wreath. 

Running over the club-moss burrs; 

I inhaled the violet's breath ; 

Around me stood the oaks and firs; 

Pine-cones and acorns lay on the ground; 

Over me soared the eternal sky. 

Full of light and of deity ; 

Again I saw, again I heard. 

The rolling river, the morning bird; — 

Beauty through my senses stole ; 

I yielded myself to the perfect whole. 



THE PROBLEM. 

I LIKE a church, I like a cowl, 
I love a prophet of the soul, 
And on my heart monastic aisles 
Fall like sweet strains or pensive smiles, 
Yet not for all his faith can see 
Would I that cowled churchman be. 

Why should the vest on him allure, 
Which I could not on me endure? 

Not from a vain or shallow thought 
His awful Jove young Phidias brought; 
Never from lips of cunning fell 
The thrilling Delphic oracle ; 
Out from the heart of nature rolled 
The burdens of the Bible old ; 
The litanies of nations came, 
Like the volcano's tongue of flame. 
Up from the burning core below, — 
The canticles of love and woe. 
The hand that rounded Peter's dome, 
And groined the aisles of Christian Rome, 
Wrought in a sad sincerity. 
Himself from God he could not free; 
He builded better than he knew; 
The conscious stone to beauty grew. 

Know'st thou what wove yon wood- 
bird's nest 
Of leaves, and feathers from her breast ; 
Or how the fish outbuilt her shell, 
Painting with morn each annual cell; 
Or how the sacred pine-tree adds 



EALPH WALDO EMERSON. 



201 



To her old leaves new myriads ? 
Such and so grew these holy piles, 
Whilst love and terror laid the tiles. 
Earth proudly wears the Parthenon 
As the best gem upon her zone ; 
And morning opes with haste her lids 
To gaze upon the Pyramids; 
O'er England's Abbeys bends the sky 
As on its friends with kindred eye ; 
For, out of Thought's interior sphere 
These wonders rose to upjier air, 
And Nature gladly gave them place, 
Adopted them into her race. 
And granted them an equal date 
"Witli Andes and with Ararat. 

These temples grew as grows the grass ; 
Art might obey, but not surpass. 
The passive Master lent his hand 
To the vast Soul that o'er him planned, 
And the same power that reared the 

shrine, 
Bestrode the tiibes that knelt within. 
Ever the liery Pentecost 
Girds with one flame the countless host, 
Trances the heart through chanting 

choirs, 
And through the priest the mind in- 
spires. 

The word unto the prophet spoken 
Was writ on tables yet unbroken ; 
The word hy seers or sibyls told. 
In groves of oak or fanes of gold, 
Still floats upon the morning wind, 
Still whisjx'rs to the willing mind. 
One accent of the Holy Ghost 
The heedless world hath never lost. 
I know what say the Fathers wise, — 
Tlie book itself before me lies, — 
Old Chrysostom, best Augustine, 
And he who blent both in his line, 
The younger Golden Lips or mines, 
Taylor, the Shakespeare of divines; 
His words are music in my ear, 
I see his cowled portrait dear. 
And yet, for all his faith could see, 
I would not the good bishop be. 



BOSTON HYMN. 

The word of the Eord by night 
To the watching Pilgrims came, 

As tlipy sat by tlie seaside. 

And filled their hearts with flame. 

God said, I am tired of kings, 
I suffer them no more ; 



Up to my ear the morning brings 
The outrage of the poor. 

Think ye I made this ball 

A field of havoc and war. 
Where tyrants great and tyrants small 

Might harry the weak and poor ? 

My angel, — his name is Freedom, — 
Choose him to be your king; 

He shall cut jiathways east and west, 
And fend you with his wing. 

Lo ! I uncover the land, 

Which I hid of old time in the West, 
As the scul]itor uncovers the statue 

When he has wrought his best ; 

I show Columbia, of the rocks 
Which dip their foot in the seas, 

And soar to the air-borne flocks 
Of clouds, and the boreal fleece. , 

I will divide my goods ; 

Call in the wretch and the slave : 
None shall rule but the humble. 

And none but Toil shall have. 

I will have never a noble. 

No lineage counted great ; 
Fishers and choppers and ploughmen 

Shall constitute a state. 

Go, cut down trees in the forest. 
And trim the straightest boughs ; 

Cut down trees in tlie forest. 
And build me a wooden house. 

Call the people together. 

The young men and the sires, 

The digger in the harvest-field, 
Hireling, and him that hires ; 

And here in a pine state-house 
They shall choose men to rule 

In every needful faculty. 

In church and state and school. 

Lo, now ! if these poor men 
Can govern the land and sea. 

And make just laws below the sun. 
As planets faithful be. 

And j'e shall succor men ; 

'T is nobleness to serve ; 
Help them wlio cannot lielp again: 

Beware from riglit to swerve. 



202 



SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 



I break your bonds and masterships, 

And 1 unchain the slave : 
Free be his heart and hand henceforth 

As wind and wandering wave. 

I cause from every creature 

His ]iro23er good to flow ; 
As mucli as he is and doeth, 

So much he shall bestow. 

But, laying hands on another, 
To coin his labor and sweat. 

He goes in pawn to his victim 
For eternal years in debt. 

To-day unbind the captive. 

So only are ye unbound ; 
Lift up a people from the dust, 

Trump of their rescue, sound ! 

Pay ransom to the owner. 
And fill the bag to the brim. 

Who is the owner? The slave is owner. 
And ever was. Pay him. 

O North ' give him beauty for rags. 
And honor, South ! for his shame ; 

Nevada ! coin thy golden crags 
With Freedom's image and name. 

Up ! and the dusky race 

That sat in darkness long, — 

Be swift their feet as antelopes, 
And as behemoth strong. 

Come, East and West and North, 

By races, as snowflakes. 
And carry my purpose forth, 

Which neither halts nor shakes. 

My will fulfilled shall be, 
For, in daylight or in dark. 

My thunderbolt has eyes to see 
His way home to the mark. 



THE SOUL'S PROPHECY. 

All before us lies the way ; 

Give the ])ast unto the wind; 
All before us is the day. 

Night and darkness are behind. 

Eden with its angels bold. 

Love and flowers and coolest sea, 
Is less an ancient story told 

Than a glowing prophecy. 



In the spirit's perfect air. 

In the i)assions tame and kind. 

Innocence from selfish care. 
The real Eden we shall find. 

When the soul to sin hath died. 
True and beautiful and sound. 

Then all earth is sanctified, 
Upsprings paradise around. 

From the spirit-land afar 

All disturbing force shall flee ; 

Stir, nor toil, nor hope shall mar 
Its immortal unity. 



EDGAR A. POE. 



[O. S. A., 



1849.; 



THE BELLS. 

Hear the sledges with the bells, — 
Silver bells, — 
What a world of merriment their melody 
foretells ! 
How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle. 

In the icy air of night ! 
While the stars that oversprinkle 
All the heavens seem to twinkle 

With a crystalline delight ; 
Kee])ing time, time, time. 
In a sort of Runic rhyme. 
To the tintinnabulation that so musically 
wells 
From the bells, bells, bells, bells. 
Bells, bells, bells,— 
From the jingling and the tinkling of 
the bells. 

Hear the mellow wedding bells, 
Golden bells ! 
Whata world of happiness their harmony 
foretells ! 
Through the balmy air of night 
How they ring out their delight ! 
From the molten-golden notes, 

And all in tune, 
"Wliat a liquid ditty floats 
To the turtle-dove that listens, while 
she gloats 
On the moon ! 
0, from out the sounding cells. 
What a gush of euphony voluminously 
wells ! 



EGBERT BROWNING. 



203 



How it swells ! 
How it dwells 
On the Future ! how it tells 
Of the rapture that impels 
To the swinging and the ringing 

Of the bells, bells, bells, 
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells. 
Bells, bells, bells,— 
To the rhyming and the chiming of the 
bells ! 

Hear the loud alarum bells, — 
Brazen bells ! 
"What a tale of terror, now, their turbu- 
lenoy tells ! 
In the startled ear of night 
How they scream out their affright ! 
Too much horrified to speak. 
They can only shriek, shriek, 
Out of tune. 
In a clamorous appealing to the mercy 

of the tire, 
In a mad expostulation with the deaf 
and frantic fire. 
Leaping higher, higher, higher. 
With a desperate desire. 
And a resolute endeavor 
Now — now to sit or never. 
By the side of the ])ale-faced moon. 
0, the bells, bells, bells. 
What a tale their teri-or tells 
Of Desi^air ! 
How they clang, and clash, and roar! 
What a horror they out])our 
On the bosom of the palpitating air ! 
Yet the ear it fully knows, 
By the twanging. 
And the clanging. 
How the danger ebbs and flows ; 
Yet the ear distinctly tells, 
In the jangling, 
And the wrangling, 
How the danger sinks and swells. 
By the sinking or tlie swelling in the 
anger of the bells — 
Of the bells — 
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells. 
Bells, bells, bells, — 
In the clamor and the clangor of the 
bells ! 

Hear the tolling of the bells, — 
Iron bells ! 
"What a world of solemn thought their 
monody compels ! 
In the silence of the night. 
How we shiver with affright 



At the melancholy menace of their 
tone ! 
For every sound that floats 
From the rust within their throats 

Is a groan. 
And the people, — ah, the people, — 
They that dwell up in the steeple. 

All alone. 
And who, tolling, tolling, tolling. 

In that muffled monotone, 
Feel a glory in so rolling 

On the human heart a stone, — 
They are neither man nor woman, — 
They are neither brute norhuman, — 

They are Ghouls : 
And their king it is who tolls; 
And he rolls, rolls, rolls, 
Rolls 
A psean from the bells ! 
And his merry bosom swells 

With the paean of the bells ! 
And he dances and he yells ; 
Keeping time, time, time, 
In a sort of Runic rhyme. 
To the paean of the bells, — 
Of the bells : 
Keeping time, time, time, 
In a sort of Runic rhyme. 

To the throbbing of the bells, — 
Of the bells, bells, bells, — 

To the sobbing of the bells ; 
Keeping time, time, time. 

As he knells, knells, knells, 
In a happy Runic rhyme. 

To the lolling of the bells, — 
Of the bells, bells, bells, — 

To the tolling of the bells. 
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,— 
Bells, bells, bells, — 
To the moaning and the groaning of the 
bells. 



ROBERT BROWNING. 

EVELYN HOPE. 

Beautiful Evelyn Hope is dead ! 

Sit and watch by her side an hour. 
That is her book-shelf, this her bed ; 

She plucked that piece of geranium- 
flower. 
Beginning to die, too, in the glass. 

Little has yet been changed, I think, — • 



204 



SONGS OF THREE CENTUKIES. 



The shutters are shut, no light may pass 
Save two long rays through the hinge's 
chink. 

Sixteen years old when she died ! 

Perhaps she had scarcely heard my 
name, — 
It was not her time to love : beside, 

Her life had many a hope and aim, 
Duties enough and little cares. 

And now was quiet, now astir, — 
Till God's hand beckoned unawares, 

And the sweet white brow is all of her. 

Is it too late then, Evelyn Hope ? 

What, your soul was pure and true, 
The good stars met in your horoscope. 

Made you of spirit, fire, and dew, — 
And just because I was thrice as old. 

And our patiis in the world diverged 
so wide, 
Each was naught to each, must I be told ? 

We were fellow mortals, naught beside ? 

No, indeed ! for God above 

Is great to grant as mighty to make, 
And creates tlie love to reward the love, — 

I claim you still, for my own love's sake ! 
Delayed it may be for more lives yet. 

Through worlds I shall traverse, not a 
few, — 
Much is to learn and much to forget 

Ere the time be come for taking you. 

But the time will come, — at last it will. 
When, Evelyn Hope, what meant, I 
shall say. 
In the lower earth, in the years long still, 
That body and soul so pure and gay ? 
Why your hair was amber, I shall divine, 
Ajid your mouth of your own gera- 
nium's red, — 
And what you would do with me, in fine. 
In the new life come in the old one's 
stead. 

I have lived, I shall say, so much since 
then. 

Given up myself so many times. 
Gained me the gains of various men, 

Ransacked the ages, spoiled the 
climes ; 
Yetone thing, one, in my soul'sfull scope, 

Either I missed or itself missed me — 
And I want and find you, Evelyn Hope! 

What is the issue? let us see! 



I loved you, Evelyn, all the while ; 

My heart seemed full as it could hold, — 
There was place and to spare for the frank 
young smile 
And the red young mouth and the 
hair's young gold. 
So, hush, — I will give you this leaf to 
keep, — 
See, I shut it inside the sweet cold hand. 
There, that is our secret ! go to sleep ; 
You will wake, and remember, and 
understand. 



RABBI BEN EZRA. 

Grow old along with me ! 

The best is yet to be. 

The last of life, for which the first was 

made : 
Our times are in His hand 
Who saith, " A whole I planned. 
Youth shows but half; trust God: see 

all, nor be afraid!" 

Not that, amassing flowers. 
Youth sighed, " Which rose make ours. 
Which lily leave and then as best recall ? " 
Not that, admiring stars. 
It yearned, " Nor Jove, nor Mars; 
Mine be some figured flame which blends, 
transcends them all ! " 

Not for such hopes and fears. 
Annulling youth's brief years. 
Do I remonstrate, — folly wide the mark ! 
Bather I prize the doubt 
Low kinds exist without. 
Finished and finite clods, untroubled by 
a spark. 

Poor vaunt of life indeed. 
Were man but formed to feed 
On joy, to solely seek and find and feast : 
Such feasting ended, then 
As sure an end to men ; 
Irks care the crop-full bird ? Frets doubt 
the maw-crammed beast ? 

Rejoice M-e are allied 
To That which doth provide 
And not partake, eff't'ct and not receive! 
A spark disturbs our (dod ; 
Nearer we hold of God 
Who gives, than of his tribes that take, 
I must believe. 



KOBERT BROWNING. 205 


Then, welcome each rehuff 


Let us cry, "All good things 


That turns earth's sniootlmess rough, 


Are ours, nor soul helps flesh more, now, 


Each sting that bids nor sit nor stand, 


than flesh helps soul ! " 


but go ! 




Be our joys three parts pain ! 
Strive, and hold cheap the strain ; 


Therefore I summon age 


To grant youth's heritage, 


Leara, nor account the pang ; dare, never 


Life's struggle having so far reached its 


gi-udge the throe ! 


term : 




Thence shall I pass, approved 


For thence — a paradox 


A man, for aye removed 


Which comforts while it mocks — 


From the developed brute ; a God though 


Shall life succeed in that it seems to fail : 


in the germ. 


What I aspired to be. 




And was not, comforts me : 


And I shall thereupon 


A brute I might have been, but would 
not sink 1' the scale. 


Take rest, ere I be gone 


Once more on my adventure brave and 


What is he but a brute 


new : 
Fearless and unperplexed. 


Whose flesh hath soul to suit, 


AVlien 1 wage battle next. 


Whose spirit works lest arms and legs 


What weapons to select, what armor to 


want play ? 


indue. 


To man, propose this test, — 




Thy body at its best. 


Youth ended, I shall try 


How far can that project thy soul on its 


My gain or loss thereby ; 

Be the fire ashes, Avhat survives is gold : 


lone way ? 




And I shall weigh the same, 
Give life its praise or blame : 


Yet gifts should prove their use : 


I own the Past profuse 


Young, all lay in dispute ; I shall know. 


Of power each side, perfection every turn : 
Eyes, ears took in their dole. 


being old. 




Brain treasured up the whole ; 


For note, when evening shuts, 


Should not the heart beat once, "How 


A certain moment cuts 


good to live and learn ?" 


Th(3 deed off', calls the glory from the gray : 




A whisper from the west 


Not once beat, "Praise be Thine ! 


Shoots, "Add this to the rest. 


I see the whole design. 


Takeitandtryitsworth : here dies another 


I, who saw Power, shall see Love perfect 

too: 
Perfect I call Thy plan : 


day." 


So, still within this life. 


Thanks that I was a man ! 


Though lifted o'er its strife, 


Maker, remake, complete, — I trust what 


Let me discern, compare, pronounce at 


thou shalt do!" 


last. 




"This rage was right i' the main. 


For pleasant is this flesh ; 


That acquiescence vain : 


Our soul, in its rose-mesh 


The Future I may face now I have proved 


Pulled ever to the earth, still yearns for 

rest : 
Would we some prize might hold 


the Past." 


For more is not reserved 


To match those manifold 


To man, with soul just nerved 


Possessions of the brute, — gain most, as 


To act to-morrow what he learns to-day : 


we did best ! 


Here, work enough to watch 




The Master work, and catch 


Let us not always say. 


Hints of the proper craft, tricks of the 


"Spite of this flesh to-day 


tool's true play. 


I strove, made head, gained ground upon 




the whole!" 


As it was better, youth 


As the bird wings and sings, 


Should strive, through acts uncouth, 



206 



SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 



Toward making, than repose on aught 

found made ; 
So, better, age, exempt 
From strife, should know, than tempt 
Further. Thou waitedst age ; wait death 

nor be afraid ! 

Enough now, if the Right 

And Good and Infinite 

Be named here, as thou callest thy hand 

thine own, 
With knowledge absolute, 
Subject to no dispute 
From fools that crowded youth, nor let 

thee feel alone. 

Be there, for once and all. 
Severed great minds from small. 
Announced to each his station in the 

Past ! 
Was I, the world arraigned, 
Were they, my soul disdained. 
Right? Let age speak the truth and 

give us peace at last ! 

Now, who shall arbitrate ? 

Ten men love what I hate. 

Shun what I follow, slight what I re- 
ceive ; 

Ten, who in ears and eyes 

Match me : we all surmise. 

They, this thing, and I, that : whom shall 
my soul believe ? 

Kot on the vulgar mass 

Called "work," must sentence pass. 

Things done, that took the eye and had 

the price ; 
O'er which, from level stand. 
The low world laid its hand, 
Found straiglitway to its mind, could 

value in a trice : 

But all, the world's coarse thumb 
And finger failed to plumb, 
So passed in making up the main account ; 
All instincts immature, 
All purposes unsure. 
That weighed not as his work, yet swelled 
the man's amount : 

Thoughts hardly to be packed 

Into a narrow act. 

Fancies that broke tffi'ough language and 

escaped ; 
All I could never be, 



All men ignored in me. 
Tills 1 was worth to God, whose wheel 
the pitcher shaped. 

Ay, note that Potter's wheel, 

That metaphor ! and feel 

Wliy time s[)ins fast, why passive lies out 

clay, — 
Thou, to whom fools profjound, 
When the wine makes its round, 
' ' Since life fleets, all is change ; the Past 

gone, seize to-day ! " 

Fool ! All that is, at all. 

Lasts ever, past recall ; 

Earth changes, but thy soul and God 

stand sure : 
What entered into thee. 
That was, is, and shall be : 
Time's wheel runs back or stops : Potter 

and clay endure. 

He fixed thee mid this dan,ce 

Of plastic circumstance. 

Tins Present, thou, forsooth, wouldst fain 

arrest : 
Machinery just meant 
To give thy soul its bent. 
Try thee and turn thee forth, sufficiently 

impressed. 

What though the earlier grooves 

Which ran the laughing loves 

Around thy base, no longer pause and 

press ? 
What though, about thy rim, 
Skull-things in order grim 
Grow out, in graver mood, obey the 

sterner stress? 

Look not thou down, but up ! 

To uses of a cup. 

The festal board, lamp's flash, and trum- 
pet's peal, 

The new wine's foaming flow, 

The Master's lips aglow ! 

Thou, heaven's consummate cup. what 
needst thou with earth's wheel ? 

But I need, now as then, 

Thee, God, who mouldest men ; 

And since, not even while the whirl was 

worst. 
Did I — to the wheel of life 
With shapes and colors rife. 
Bound (lizzilv — mistake my end, to 

slake thy thirst : 



HENKY W. LONGFELLOW. 



207 



So, take and use Thy work ! 

Amend what Haws may lurk, 

"What strain o' the stuff, what warpings 

past the aim ! 
My times be in Thy hand ! 
Perfect the cup as planned ! 
Let age approve of youth, and death 

complete the same! 



THE LOST LEADER. 

Just for a handful of silver lie left us ; 

Just for a ribbon to stick in his coat, — 
Found the one gift of which fortune be- 
reft us, 
Lost all the others she lets us devote. 
They, with the gold to give, doled him 
out silver. 
So much was theirs who so little allowed. 
How all our copper had gone for his ser- 
vice ! 
Eags — were they purple, his heart 
had been proud ! 
We that had loved him so, followed him, 
honored him. 
Lived in his mild and magnificent eye. 
Learned his great language, caught his 
clear accents. 
Made him our pattern to live and to 
die! 
Shakespeare was of us, Milton was for us. 
Burns, Shelley, were with us, — they 
watch from their graves ! 
He alone breaks from the van and the 
freemen ; 
He alone sinks to the rear and the 
slaves ! 
We shall march prospering, — not through 
his presence ; 
Songs may inspirit us, — not from his 
lyre ; 
Deeds will be done, — while he boasts his 
quiescence, 
Still bidding crouch whom the rest 
bade aspire. 
Blot out his name, then, — record one 
lost soul more, 
One task more declined, one more foot- 
path untrod, 
One more triumph for devils, and sor- 
row for angels. 
One wrong more to man, one more in- 
sult to God ! 
Life's night begins ; let him never come 
back to us 1 



There would be doubt, hesitation, and 
pain. 
Forced praise on our part, — the glimmer 
of twilight. 
Never glad, confident morning again I 
Best fight on well, for we taught him, — 
strike gallantly. 
Aim at our heart ere we pierce through 
his own ; 
Then let him receive the new knowledge 
and wait us, 
Pardoned in Heaven, the first by the 
throne ! 



HENRY W. LONGFELLOW. 

[U. S. A.] 

PATJL REVERE'S RIDE. 

Listen, my children, and you shall hear 
Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere, 
On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy- 
five; 
Hardly a man is now alive 
Who remembers that famous day and year. 

He said to his friend, "If the British 

march 
By land or sea from the town to-night. 
Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch 
Of the North Church tower as a signal 

. light, - 
One, if by land, and two, if by sea ; 
And I on the opposite shore will be. 
Ready to ride and spread the alarm 
Through every Middlesex village and 

farm, 
For the country folk to be up and to 



Then he said, "Good night!" and with 

muffled oar 
Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore, 
Just as the moon rose over the bay, 
Where swinging wide at her moorings lay 
The Somerset, British man-of-war; 
A phantom ship, with each mast and spar 
Across the moon like a prison bar, 
And a huge black hulk, that was magni- 
fied 
By its own reflection in the tide. 

Meanwhile, his hi^^S^ through alley and 

street, 
Wanders and watches with eager ears, 



208 



SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 



Till in the silence around liim he hears 
The muster of men at the barrack door, 
The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet, 
And the measured tread of the grenadiers, 
Marchingdown to their boats on theshore. 

Then he climbed the tower of the Old 

North Church, 
By the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread, 
To tlie belfry-chamber overhead, 
And startled the pigeons from their perch 
On the sombre rafters, that round him 

made 
Masses and moving sha|)es of shade, — 
By the trembling ladder, steep and tall, 
To the highest window in the wall, 
Where he paused to listen and look down 
A moment on the roofs of the town, 
And the moonlight flowing over all. 

Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead, 
In their night-encampment on the hill, 
Wrapped in silence so deep and still 
That he could hear, like a sentinel's tread, 
The watchful night-wind, as it went 
Creeping along from tent to tent, 
And seeming to whisper, "All is well!" 
A moment only he feels the spell 
Of the place and the hour, and the secret 

dread 
Of the lonely belfry and the dead ; 
For suddenly all his thoughts are bent 
On a shadowy something far away. 
Where the river widens to meet the bay, — 
A line of black that bends and floats 
On the rising tide, like a bridge of boats. 

Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride, 
Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride 
On the opposite shore walked Paul Re- 
vere. 
Now he patted his horse's side. 
Now gazed at the landscape far and near, 
Then, imi>etaous, stamped the earth. 
And turned and tightened his saddle- 
girth ; 
But mostly he watched with eager search 
The belfry-towerof theOld North Church, 
As it rose above the graves on the hill, 
Lonely and spectral and sombre and still. 
And lo ! as he looks, on thebelfry'sheight 
A glimmer, and then a gleam of light ! 
He springs to the saddle, the bridle he 

turns, 
But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight 
A second lamp in the belfry burns ! 



A hurry of hoofs in a village street, 

A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the 
dark, 

And beneath, from the pebbles, in pass- 
ing, a spark 

Struck out by a steed flying fearless and 
fleet: 

That was all ! And yet, through the 
• gloom and the light. 

The fate of a nation was riding that night ; 

And the spark struck out by that steed, 
in his flight. 

Kindled the land into flame with its heat. 

He has left the village and mounted the 

steep. 
And beneath him, tranquil and broad and 

deep. 
Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides ; 
And under the alders, that skirt its edge. 
Now soft on the sand, now loud on the 

ledge, 
Isheard the tramp of his steed as he rides. 

It was twelve by the village clock 
When he crossed the bridge into Medford 

town. 
He heard the crowing of the cock. 
And the barking of the farmer's dog. 
And felt the dami) of the river fog. 
That rises after the sun goes down. 

It was one by the village clock, 
When he galloped into Lexington. 
He saw the gilded weathercock 
Swim in the moonlight as he passed, 
And the meeting-house windows, blank 

and bare, 
Gaze at him with a spectral glare. 
As if they already stood aghast 
At the bloody work they would look upon. 

It was two by the village clock 

When he came to the bridge in Concord 

town. 
He heard the bleating of the flock. 
And the twitter of birds among the trees, 
And felt the breath of the morning breeze 
Blowing over the meadows brown. 
And one was safe and asleep in his bed 
Who at the bridge would be first to fall, 
Who that day would be lying dead, 
Pierced by a British musket-ball. 

You know the rest. In the books you 

have read. 
How the British Regulars fired and fled, — 




"But mostly he watched with eager search." —Page 20S. 



HE^'RY W. LONGFELLOW. 



209 



How the farmers gave them hall for hall, 
From hehiiid each fence and farm-yard 

wall, 
Chasing the redcoats down the lane. 
Then ciossing the fields to enieige again 
Under the trees at the turn of the road, 
And only pausing to lire and load. 

So through the night rode Paul Revere ; 
And so through the night went his cry 

of alarm 
To every Middlesex village and farm, — 
A erj" of defiance and not of fear, 
A voice in the darkness, a knock at the 

door. 
And a word that shall echo forevermore ! 
For, home on the night- wind of the Past, 
Through all our history, to the last. 
In the hour of darkness and peril and 

need. 
The people will waken and listen to hear 
The hurrying hoof-heats of that steed 
And the midnight message of Paul Re- 
vere. 

MAIDENHOOD. 

Maiden ! with the meek, hrown eyes, 
In whose orhs a shadow lies 
Like the dusk in evening skies ! 

Thou whose locks outshine the sun, 
Golden tresses, wreathed in one. 
As the hraided streamlets run ! 

Standing, with reluctant feet. 
Where the hrook and river meet. 
Womanhood and childhood fleet ! 

Gazing, with a timid glance, 
On the brooklet's swift advance. 
On the river's broad expanse ! 

Deep and still, that gliding stream 
Beautiful to thee must seem. 
As the river of a dream. 

Then why pause with indecision, 
AVhen bright angels in thy vision 
Beckon thee to fields Elysian? 

Seest thou .shadows sailing by, 
As the dove, with startled eye, 
Sees the falcon's shadow fly? 

Hearest thou voices on the shore, 
That our ears perceive no more, 
Deafened by the cataract's roar ? 
14 



0, thou child of many prayers ! 

Life hath quicksands, — Life hath snares ! 

Care and age come unawares ! 

Like the swell of some sweet tune. 
Morning rises into noon, 
May glides onward into June. 

Childhood is the bough, where slumbered 
Birds and blossoms many-numbered ; — 
Age, that bough with snows encumbered. 

Gather, then, each flower that grows, 
When the young heart overflows. 
To embalm that tent of snows. 

Bear a lily in thy hand ; 

Gates of brass cannot withstand 

One touch of that magic wand. 

Bear through sorrow, wrong, and ruth, 
In thy heart the dew of youth. 
On thy lips the smile of truth. 

0, that dew, like balm, shall steal 
Into wounds that cannot heal. 
Even as sleep our eyes doth seal ; 

And that smile, like sunshine, dart 
Into many a sunless heart, 
For a smile of God thou art. 



A PSALM OF LIFE. 



Tell me not, in mournful numbers. 
Life is but an empty dream ! 

For the soul is dead tiiat slumbers. 
And things are not what they seem. 

Life is real ! Life is earnest ! 

And the grave is not its goal ; 
Dust thou art, to dust returnest, 

Was not spoken of the soul. 

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, 

Is our destined end or way; 
But to act, that each to-morrow 

Find us farther than to-day. 

Art is long, and Time is fleeting. 

And our hearts, though stout and brave. 

Still, like muffled drums, are beating 
Funeral marches to the grave. 



210 



SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 



In the world's liroad field of battle, 

111 the liivouac of Life, 
Be not like dunili, driven cattle ! 

Be a hero in the strife ! 

Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant ! 

Let the dead Past bury its dead ! 
Act, — act in the living Present! 

Heart within, and God o'erhead ! 

Lives of great men all remind us 
We can make our lives sublime. 

And, departing, leave behind us 
Footprints on the sands of time ; 

Foot]irints, that perhaps another, 
Sailing o'er life's solemn main, 

A forlorn and shipwrecked brother, 
Seeing, shall take heart again. 

Let us, then, be up and doing. 
With a heart for any fate. 

Still achieving, still pursuing. 
Learn to labor and to wait. 



RESIGNATION. 

There is no flock, however watched and 
tended, 

But one dead lamb is there ! 
There is no fireside, howsoe'er defended, 

But has one vacant chair ! 

The air is full of farewells to the dying. 
And mournings for the dead ; 

The heart of Kachel, for her children 
crying, 
Will not be comforted ! 

Let us be patieiit ! These severe afflic- 
tions 

Not from the ground arise. 
But oftentimes celestial benedictions 

Assume this dark disguise. 

We see but dimly through the mists and 
vapors ; 

Amid these earthly damps 
What seem to us but sad, funereal tapers 

May be heaven's distant lamps. 

There is no Death ! What seems so is 
transition ; 
This life of mortal breath 



Is but a suburb of the life elysian, 
AA^hose portal we call Death. 

She is not dead, — the child of our aff'ec- 
tion, — 
But gone unto that school 
Where she no longer needs our poor pro- 
tection. 
And Christ himself doth rule. 

In that great cloister's stillness and seclu- 
sion, 
By guardian angels led. 
Safe from temptation, safe from sin's pol- 
lution. 
She lives, whom we call dead. 

Day after day we think what she is doing 
In those bright realms of air ; 

Year after year, her tender steps pursu- 
ing. 
Behold her grown more fair. 

Thus do we walk with her, and keep 
unbroken 
The bond which nature gives. 
Thinking that our remembrance, though 
unspoken, 
May reach her where she lives. 

Not as a child shall we again behold her : 
For when with raptures wild 

In our embraces Ave again enfold her, 
She will not be a child ; 

But a fair maiden, in her Father's man- 
sion. 
Clothed with celestial grace ; 
And beautiful with all the soul's expan- 
sion 
Shall we behold her face. 



And though at times impetuous with 
emotion 
And anguish long suppressed, 
Tlie swelling heart heaves moaning like 
the ocean. 
That cannot be at rest, — 

We will be patient, and assuage the feel- 
ing 

We may not wholly stay; 
By silence sanctifying, not concealing. 

The grief that must have way. 



HENRY W. LONGFELLOW. 



211 



SANTA riLOMENA, 

Wiienk'er a iio])le deed is wrouglit, 
"Whene'er is siwkeii a noble thought, 

(.)ur hearts, in glad surprise, 

To higher levels rise. 

The tidal wave of d(;eper souls 
Into our inmost being rolls, 

And lifts us unawares 

Out of all meaner cares. 

Honor to those whose words or deeds 
Thus help us in our daily needs, 
And by their ovei-flow 
Eaise us from what is low ! 

Thus thought I, as by night I read 
Of the great army of the dead, 
The trenches cold and damp, 
The starved and frozen camp, — 

The wounded from the battle-plain. 

In dicary hospitals of pain, 
Tlic chc'ci'less corridors, 
The cold and stony floors. 

Lo ! in that house of misery 

A lady with a lamp I see 

Pass through the glimmering gloom, 
And flit from room to room. 

And slow, as in a dream of bliss. 
The speechless sufferer turns to kiss 
Her shadow, as it falls 
Upon the darkening walls. 

As if a door in heaven should be 
Opened and then closed suddenly, 
The vision came and went, 
The light shone and was spent. 

On England's annals, through the long 
Hereafter of her speech and'song, 

That light its rays shall cast 

From portals of the past. 

A Lady with a Latnp shall stand 
In the great history of the land, 

A noble ty])e of good. 

Heroic womanhood. 

Nor even shall be wanting here 
The palm, the lily, and the spear, 

The symbols that of yoi'e 

Saint Filomena bore. 



HAWTHORNE. 

May 23, 1S64. 

How beautiful it was, that one bright day 

In the long week of rain ! 
Though all its splendor could not chase 
away 

The omnipresent pain. 

The lovely town was white with apple- 
blooms, 

And the great elms o'erhead 
Dark shadows wove on their aeiial looms 

Shot through with golden thread. 

Across the meadows, by the gray old 
manse, 

Tlie histoi-ic river flowed : 
I was as one who wanders in a tiance. 

Unconscious of his road. 

The faces of familiar friends seemed 
sti'ange ; 
Their voices I could hear. 
And yet the vvoids they uttered seemed 
to change 
Their meaning to my ear. 

For the one face I looked for was not theie. 
The one low voice was mute ; 

Only an unseen presence filled the air, 
And baffled my puisuit. 

Now I look back, and meadow, manse, 
and stream 

Dimly my thought defines ; 
I only see — a dream within a dream — 

The hill-top hearsed with pines. 

I only hear above his place of rest 

Their tender undertone. 
The infinite longings of a troubled breast, 

The voice so like his own. 

Tliere in seclusion and remote from men 

The wizard hand lies cold, 
Whicli at its topmost sjiecd let fall thepen. 

And left the tale jialf told. 

Ah ! who shall lift that wand of magic 
power. 
And the lost clew regain ? 
The unfinished window in Aladdin's 
tower . 
Unfinished must remain ! 



212 



SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 



GERALD MASSEY. 

TO-DAY AND TO-MORROW. 

High hopes tliat burned like stars sublime 

Go down the heavens of Freedom, 
And true hearts perish in the time 

We bitterliest need them ! 
But never sit we down, and say 

There 's nothing left but soriow ; 
We walk the wilderness to-daj', 

The promised land to-morrow. 

Our birds of song are silent now. 

There are no dowers blooming; 
Yet life beats in the frozen bough, 

And Freedom's spring is coming ! 
And Freedom's tide comes up alway, 

Though we may stand in sorrow ; 
And our good bark aground to-day 

Shall float again to-morrow. 



Through allthelong, dark nights of years 

The people's cry ascendeth. 
And earth is wet with blood and tears ; 

But our meek sufferance endeth ! 
The few shall not forever sway, 

The many toil in sorrow ; 
The powers of earth are strong to-day, 

But Heaven shall rule to-morrow. 



Though hearts brood o'er the past, our eyes 

With smiling features glisten ! 
For lo ! our day bursts up the skies: 

Lean out your souls and listen ! 
The world rolls Freedom's radiant way 

And ripens with her sorrow ; 
Keep heart ! who bear the cross to-day 

Shall wear the crown to-morrow. 



Youth ! flame earnest, still aspire, 

With energies immortal ! 
To many a heaven of desire 

Our yearning opes a portal : 
And though age wearies by the way, 

And hearts break in the furrow. 
We '11 sow the golden grain to-day. 

And harvest comes to-morrow. 



Build up heroic lives, and all 
Be like a sheathen sabre, 

Ready to flash out at God's call, 
chivalry of labor ! 



Triumph and toil are twins; and aye, 
Joy suns the cloud of sorrow ; 

And 't is the martyrdoiu to-day 
Brings victory to-morrow. 



JOHN G. WHITTIER. 

[U. S. A.] 

THE GRAVE BY THE LAKK 

Where the Great Lake's sunny smiles 
Dimple round its hundred isles. 
And the mountain's granite ledge 
Cleaves the water like a wedge, 
Ringed about with smooth, gray stones, 
Rest the giant's mighty bones. 

Close beside, in shade and gleam. 
Laughs and ripples Melvin stream ; 
Melvin water, mountain-ljorn. 
All fair flowers its banks adorn ; 
All the woodland's voices meet, 
Mingling with its murnmrs sweet. 

Over lowlands forest-grown, 
Over waters island-strown, 
Over silver-sanded beach. 
Leaf-locked bay and misty reach, 
!M(dvin stream and burial-heap, 
Watch and ward the mountains keep. 

Who that Titan cromlech fills ? 
Forest-kaiser, lord o' the hills ? 
Knight who on the bii-chen tree 
Carved his savage heraldry ? 
Priest o' tlie pine-wood temples dim, 
Prophet, sage, or wizard grim ? 

Rugged type of ]irimal man, 
Grim utilitarian, 

Loving woods for hunt and prowl, 
Lake and hill for tish and fowl. 
As the brown bear blind and dull 
To the grand and beautiful : 

Not for him the lesson drawn 
From the mountains sinit with dawn. 
Star-rise, moon -rise, flowers of May, 
Sunset's ]>ur]ile bloom of day, — ■ 
Took his life no hue from thence, 
Poor amid such aflluence 1 

Haply unto hill and tree 
All too near akin was he : 



JOHN G. WHITTIEK. 



213 



Unto him who stands afar 
Nature's marvels greatest are ; 
"Who the mountain purple seeks 
Must not climb the higher peaks. 

Yet who knows in winter tramp, 
Or the midnight of the camp, 
What revealings faint and far, 
Stealing down from moon and star, 
Kindled in that human clod 
Thought of destiny and God ? 

Stateliest forest patriarch, 
Grand in robes of skin and bark. 
What sepulchral inystei'ies, 
What weird funeral-rites, were his? 
What sharp wail, what drear lament. 
Back scared wolf and eagle sent t 

Now, whate'er he maj^ have been. 
Low he lies as other men ; 
On his mound the partriclge drums. 
There the noisy blue-jay comes ; 
Kank nor name nor pomp has he 
In the grave's democracy. 

Part thy blue lips, Northern lake ! 
Moss-grown rocks, your silence break ! 
Tell the tale, thou ancient tree ! 
Thou, too, slide-worn Ossipee ! 
Speak, and tell us how and when 
Lived and died this king of men ! 

Wordless moans the ancient pine ; 
Lake and mountain give no sign ; 
Vain to trace this ring of stones ; 
Vain the search of crumbling bones : 
Deepest of all mysteries. 
And the saddest, silence is. 

Nameless, noteless, clay with clay 
Mingles slowly day by day ; 
But somewhere, for good or ill. 
That dark soul is living still ; 
Somewhere yet that atom's force 
Moves the light-poised universe. 

Strange that on his burial-sod 
Harebells bloom, and golden-rod. 
While the soul's dark horoscope 
Holds no starry sign of hope ! 
Is the Unseen with sight at odds? 
Nature's pity more than God's? 

Thus I mused by Melvin's side, 
While the summer eventide 



Made the woods and inland sea 
Anil the mountains mystery ; 
And the hush of earth and air 
Seemed the pause before a prayer, — 

Prayer for him, for all who rest. 
Mother Earth, upon thy breast, — 
Lapped on Christian turf, or hid 
In rock-cave or pyramid : 
All who sleep, as all who live. 
Well may need the prayer, "Forgive ! " 

Desert -smothered caravan, 
Knee-deep dust that once was man. 
Battle-trenches ghastly piled. 
Ocean-floors with white bones tiled. 
Crowded tomb and mounded sod. 
Dumbly crave that prayer to God. 

the generations old 

Over whom no church-bells tolled, 

Chiistless, lifting up blind eyes 

To the silence of the skies ! 

For the innumerable dead 

Is my soul disquieted. 

Where be now these silent hosts ? 
Where the camping-ground of ghosts? 
Where the spectral conscripts led 
To the white tents of the dead ? 
What strange shore or chartless sea 
Holds the awful mystery ? 

Then the warm sky stooped to make 
Doulde s>inset in the lake ; 
While above I saw with it, 
Range on range, the mountains lit; 
And the calm and splendor stole 
Like an answer to my soul. 

Hear'st thou, of little faith. 
What to thee the mountain saith. 
What is whispered by the trees ? — 
"Cast on God thy care for these; 
Trust him, if thy sight be dim : 
Doubt for them is doubt of him. 

"Blind must be their close-shut eyes 
Where like night the sunshine lies, 
Fiery-linked the self-forged chain 
Binding ever sin to pain. 
Strong their prison-house of will, 
But without He waiteth still. 

"Not with hatred's undertow 
Doth the Love Eternal flow ; 



214 



SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 



Eveiy chain that spirits wear 
Cminbles in thi; breath of prayer; 
And the penitent's desire 
Opens every gate of tire. 

"Still thy love, Christ arisen ! 
Yearns to reach these souls in prison 1 
Through all depths of sin and loss 
Drops the plummet of thy ci'oss ! 
Never yet abyss was found 
Deeper than that cross could sound!" 

Thei-cfore well may Nature keep 
Ecpial faith witli lill who sleep, 
Set her watch of liills around 
Christian grave and hentlien mound, 
And to cairn and kirkyard send 
Summer's tlowery dividend. 

Keep, pleasant Melvin stream, 
Thy sweet laugh in shade and gleam ! 
On the Indian's grassy tomb 
Swing, O llowers, your bells of bloom ! 
Deep below, as high above. 
Sweeps the circle of God's love. 



MY BIRTHDAY. 

Beneath the moonliglit and the snow 

Lies dead my latest year ; 
The winter winds are wailing low 

Its dirges in my ear. 

I grieve not with the moaning wind 

As if a loss befell ; 
Before me, even as behind, 

God is, and all is well ! 

His light shines on me from above, 
His low voice speaks within, — 

The patience of immortal love 
Outvvearying mortal sin. 

Not mindless of the growing years 

Of care and loss and ]iain, 
My eyes are wet with thankful tears 

For blessings which remain. 

If dim the gold of life has grown, 

I will not count it dross, 
Nor turn from treasures still my own 

To sigh for lack and loss. 



The years no charm from Nature take ; 

As sweet her voices call. 
As beautiful her mornings break. 

As fair her evenings fall. 

Love watches o'er my quiet ways, 
Kind voices speak my name, 

And lips that hud it hard to praise 
Are slow, at least, to blame. 

How softly ebb the tides of will ! 

How fields, once lost or won, 
Now lie behind me green and still 

Beneath a level sun ! 

How hushed the hiss of party hate, 

The clamor of tlm throng ! 
How old, harsh voices of debate 

Flow into rhythmic song ! 

Methinks the spirit's temper grows 

Too soft in this still air. 
Somewhat the restful heart foregoes 

Of needed watch and prayer. 

The bark by tempest vainly tossed 

]\Iay founder in the calm. 
And he who braved the polar frost 

Faint by the isles of balm. 

Better than self-indulgent years 
The outHung heart of youth, 

Than ]ileasant songs in idle cars 
The tunmlt of the tiuth. 

Rest for the weary hands is good. 
And love for hearts that ])Uie, 

But let the maidy habitude 
Of upright souls be min(!. 

Let winds that Idow from heaven refresh, 

Dear Lord, the languid air; 
An.l let the weakness of the fiesh 

Thy strength of spirit share. 

And, if the eye must fail of light. 

The ear forget to hear. 
Make clearer still the spirit's sight, 

JVIore fine the inward ear ! 

Be near me in mine hours of need 
To soothe, to cheer, or warn, 

And down tliese slopes of sunset lead 
As up the hills of morn ! 




Still stands the school-house by the road." — Page 215. 



JOHN G. WHITTIER. 



215 



THE VANISHERS. 

Sweetest of all childlike dreams 

In the simple Indian lore 
Still to me the legend seems 

Of the shapes who flit before. 

Flitting, passing, seen and gone, 
Never reached nor found at rest, 

Baffling search, but beckoning on 
To the Sunset of the Blest. 

From the clefts of mountain rocks, 
Through the dark of lowland lirs, 

Flash the eyes and flow the locks 
Of the mystic Vanishers ! 

And the fisher in his skiff". 
And the hunter on the moss. 

Hear tlieir call from cape and cliff". 
See their hands the birch-leaves toss. 

Wistful, longing, through the gi'een 
Twilight of the clustered pines, 

In their faces rarely seen 

Beauty more than mortal shines. 

Fringed with gold their mantles flow 
On the slopes of westering knolls ; 

In the wind they whisper low 
Of the Sunset Land of Souls. 

Doubt who may, friend of mine ! 

Thou and I have seen them too ; 
On before with heck and sign 

Still they glide, and we pursue. 

More than clouds of purple trail 

In the gold of setting day ; 
More than gleams of wing or sail 

Beckon from the sea-mist gray. 

Glimpses of immortal youth. 

Gleams and glories seen and flown, 

Fai'-heard voices sweet with truth. 
Airs from viewless Eden blown, — 

Beauty that eludes our grasp, 

Sweetness that transcends our taste, 

Loving hands we may not clasp. 

Shining feet that mock our haste, — 

Gentle eyes we closed below, 
Tender voices heard once more, 

Smile and call us, as they go 
On and onward, still before. 



Guided thus, friend of mine ! 

Let us walk our little way, 
Knowing by each beckoning sign 

That we are not quite astray. 

Chase we still, with baffled feet. 
Smiling eye and waving hand. 

Sought and seeker soon shall meet. 
Lost and found, in Sunset Land ! 



IN SCHOOL-DAYS. 

Still sits the school-house by the road, 

A ragged beggar sunning; 
Around it still the sumachs grow. 

And blackberry-vines are running. 

Within, the master's desk is seen, 
Deep scaried by raps official ; 

The warping floor, the battered seats, 
The jack-knife's carved initial ; 

The charcoal frescos on its wall ; 

Its door's worn sill, betraying 
The feet that, creeping slow to school, 

Went storming out to playing ! 

Long years ago a winter sun 

Shone over it at setting; 
Lit up its western window-panes, 

And low eaves' icy fretting. 

It touched the tangled golden curls, 
And brown eyes full of grieving. 

Of one who still her steps delayed 
When all the school were leaving. 

For near her stood the little boy 

Her childish favor singled ; 
His cap pulled low upon a fiice 

Where pride and shame were mingled. 

Pushing with restless feet the snow 
To right and left, he lingered; — 

As restlessly her tiny hands 

The blue-checked apron fingered. 

He saw her lift her eyes ; he felt 
The soft hand's light caressing, 

And heard the tremble of her voice, 
As if a fault confessing. 

"I 'm sorry that I spelt the word : 
I hate to go above you, 



216 



SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 



Because," — the brown eyes lower fell,- 
"Because, you see, I love you !" 

Still memory to a gray-haired man 
That sweet child-face is showing. 

Dear girl ! the grasses on lier grave 
Have forty years been growing ! 

He lives to learn, in life's hard school, 
How few wlio pass above him 

Lament their triumph and his loss, 
Like her, — because they love him. 



LAUS DEO! 

ON HEARING THE BELLS KINO ON THE PASSAGE 
OF THE CONSTITUTIONAL AMENDMENT ABOL- 
ISHING SLAVERY. 

Ir is done ! 

Clang of bell and roar of gun 
Send tlie tidings up and down. 

How the belfries rock and reel ! 

How tlie great guns, peal on peal. 
Fling the joy from town to town ! 

Eing, bells ! 
Every stroke exulting tells 

Of tlie burial hour of crime. 
Loud and long, that all may hear, 
Ring for everv listening ear 

Of Eternity and Time ! 

Let us kneel : 
God's own voice is in that peal. 

And this spot is holy ground. 
Lord, forgive us ! What are we. 
That our eyes this glory see. 

That our ears have heard the sound ! 

For the Lord 

On the whirlwind is abroad ; 
In the earthquake he has spoken ; 

He has smitten with his thunder 

The iron walls asunder. 
And the gates of brass are broken ! 

Loud and long 
Lift the old exulting song ; 

Sing with Miriam by the sea 
He has cast the mighty down ; 
Horse and rider sink and drown ; 

"He hath triumphed gloriously !" 

Did we dare. 
In our agony of prayer. 
Ask for more than He has done ? 



"When was ever his right hand 
Over any time or land 
Stretched as now beneath the sun ? 

How they pale. 
Ancient myth and song and tale, 

In this wonder of our days. 
When the cruel rod of war 
Blossoms white with righteous law, 

And the wrath of man is praise ! 

Blotted out ! 

All within and all about 
Shall a fresher life begin ; 

Freer breathe the universe 

As it rolls its heavy curse 
On the dead and buried sin ! 

It is done ! 
In the circuit of the sun 

Shall the sound thereof go forth. 
It shall bid the sad rejoice. 
It shall give the dumb a voice, 

It shall belt with joy the earth ! 

Eing and swing. 
Bells of joy ! On morning's wing 

Send the song of praise abroad ! 
With a sound of broken chains 
Tell the nations that He reigns, 

W'ho alone is Lord and God! 



THE EVE OF ELECTION. 

From gold to gray 

Our mild sweet day 
Of Indian summer fades too soon ; 

But tenderly 

Above the sea 
Hangs, white and calm, the hunter's 
moon. 

In its pale fire, 

The village spire 
Shows like the zodiac's spectral lance: 

The i^ainted walls 

Whereon it falls 
Transfigured stand in marble trance ! 

O'er fallen leaves 

The west-wind grieves. 
Yet comes a seed-time round again ; 

And morn shall see 

The State sown free 
With baleful tares or healthful grain. 



WILLIAM ALLIXGHAM. 



217 



Along the street 

Tlie shadows meet 
Of Destiny, whose hands conceal 

The moulds of fate 

That shape the state, 
And make or mar the counnon weal. 

Around I see 

The ] lowers that be; 
I stand by Empire's primal springs; 

And jirinces meet 

In ev(?ry street. 
And hear the tread of uncrowned kings 

Hark ! through the crowd 

Tlie laugh runs loud, 
Beneath the sad, rebuking moon. 

God save the land 

A careless hand 
May shake or swerve ere morrow's noon ! 

No jest is this ; 

One cast amiss 
May blast the hojie of Freedom's year. 

0, take me where 

Are hearts of prayer, 
And foreheads bowed in reverent fear ! 

Not lightly fall 

Beyond recall 
The written scrolls a breath can float ; 

The crowning fact 

The kingliest act 
Of Freedom is the freeman's vote ! 

For pearls that gem 

A diadem 
The diver in the deep sea dies ; 

The regal right 

We boast to-night 
Is ours through costlier sacrifice ; 

The blood of Vane, 

His prison pain 
Who traced the path tlie Pilgrim trod. 

And hers whose faith 

Drew strength from death. 
And prayed her Paissell up to God ! 

Our hearts grow cold. 

We lightly hold 
A right which brave men died to gain ; 

Tlie stake, the cord. 

The axe, the sword, 
Grim nurses at its birth of pain. 



The shadow rend, 

And o'er us bend, 
Omartyrs, with your crownsand palms, — 

Breathe through these throngs 

Your battle songs. 
Your scaffold prayers, and dungeon 
psalms ! 

Look from the sky. 

Like God's great eye. 
Thou solemn moon, with searching beam ; 

Till in the sight 

Of thy pure light 
Our mean self-seekings meaner seem. 

Shame from our hearts 

Unworthy arts. 
The fraud designed, the purpose dark; 

And smite away 

Tlie hands we lay 
Profanely on the sacred ark. 

To party claims 

And private aims. 
Reveal that august face of Truth, 

Whereto are given 

The age of heaven. 
The beauty of imniortal youth. 

So shall our voice 

Of sovereign choice 
Swell the deep bass of duty done, 

And strike the key 

Of time to be. 
When God and man shall speak as one ! 



WILLIAM ALLINGHAM. 

THE TOUCHSTONE. 

A MAN there came, whence none could tell, 
Bearing a touchstone in his hand ; 
And tested all things in the land 

By its unerring spell. 

Quick birth of transmutation smote 
The fair to foul, the foul to fair ; 
Purple nor ermine did he spare. 

Nor scorn the dusty coat. 

Of heirloom jewels, prized so much. 
Were many changed to chips and clods, 
And even statues of the gods 

Crumbled beneath its touch. 



218 



SONGS OF THKEE CENTURIES. 



Then angrily the people cried, 

"The loss outweighs the profit far; 
Our goods suffice us as they are ; 

We will not have them tried." 

And since they could not so avail 
To check this unrelenting guest, 
They seized him, saying, "Let him test 

How real is our jail !" 

But, thougli they slew him with the sword, 
And ill a tiiv liis touchstone burned, 
Its d(iiii--s i;iiiilil not be o'erturned. 

Its undoings restored. 

And when, to stop all future harm. 
They strewed its ashes on the breeze; 
They little guessed each grain of these 

Conveyed the perfect charm. 



CHARLES MACKAY. 

SMALL BEGINNINGS. 

A TRAVELLER through a dusty road 

strewed acorns on the lea ; 
And one took root and sprouted up, and 

grew into a tree. 
Love sought its shade, at evening time, 

to breathe his early vows ; 
And age was pleased, in heats of noon, 

to bask beneath its boughs ; 
The dormouse loved its dangling twigs, 

the birds sweet music bore ; 
It stood a glory in its place, a blessing 

evermore. 

A little spring had lost its way amid the 

grass and fern, 
A passing stranger scooped a well, where 

weary men might turn ; 
He walled it in, and hung with care a 

ladle at the brink ; 
He thought not of the deed he did, but 

judged that toil might drink. 
He passed again, and lo! the well, by 

summers never dried. 
Had cooled ten thousand parched tongues, 

and saved a life beside. 

A dreamer dropped a random thought ; 

't was old, and yet 't was new ; 
A simple fancy of the brain, but strong 

in being true. 



It shone upon a genial mind, and, lo ! 

its light became 
A lamp of life, a beacon ray, a monitory 

flame : 
The thought was small ; its issue great ; 

a watch-fire on the hill ; 
It sheds its radiance far adovvn, and 

cheers the valley still. 

A nameless man, amid a crowd that 
thronged the daily mart. 

Let fall a word of Hojie and Love, un- 
studied, from the heart ; 

A whisper on the tumult thrown, — a 
transitory breath, — 

It raised a brother from the dust; it 
saved a soul from death. 

germ ! fount ! word of love ! 
thought at random cast ! 

Ye were but little at the first, but mighty 
at the last. 



TUBAL CAIN. 

Old Tubal Cain was a man of might 

In the days when Earth was young; 
By the fierce red light of his furnace bright 

The strokes of his hammer rung; 
And he lifted high his brawny hand 

On the iron glowing clear. 
Till the sparks rushed out in scarlet 
showers. 

As he fashioned the sword and spear. 
And he sang, "Hurrah for my handi- 
work ! 

Hurrah for the spear and sword ! 
Hurrah for the hand that shall wield them 
well, 

For he shall be king and lord ! " 



To Tubal Cain came many a one, 

As he wrought by his roaring fire. 
And each one prayed for a strong steel 
blade 

As the crown of his desire : 
And he made them weapons sharp and 
strong, 

Till they shouted loud for glee. 
And gave him gifts of pearl and gold. 

And spoils of the foi'est free. 
And they sang, "Hurrah for Tubal Cain, 

Who iiath given us strength anew ! 
Hurrah for the smith, hurrah for the fire, 

And hurrah for the metal true !" 



OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. 



219 



But a sudden change eame o'er liis heart 

Ere the setting of the sun, 
And Tubal Cain was fiUed with pain 

For the evil he had done ; 
He saw that men, with rage and hate, 

Made war upon their kind, 
That the land was red with the blood 
they shed 

In their lust for carnage blind. 
And he said, "Alas! that ever I made. 

Or that skill of mine should plan. 
The spear and the sword for men whose 

joy 

Is to slay their fellow-man." 

And for many a day old Tubal Cain 

Sat brooding o'er his woe ; 
And his hand forbore to smite the ore, 

And his furnace smouldered low. 
But he rose at last with a cheerful face, 

And a bright, courageous eye, 
And bared his strong riajit arm for work. 

While the quick flames mounted high. 
And he sang, "Hurrah for my handi- 
craft!" 

And the red sparks lit the air; 
"Not alone for the blade was the bright 
steel made" ; 

And he fashioned the first ploughshare. 



OLIVER AVENDELL HOLMES. 



THE LIVING TEMPLE. 

Not in the world of light alone. 
Where God has built his blazing throne. 
Nor yet alone in earth below, 
Witli belted seas that come and go, 
And endless isles of sunlit green. 
Is all thy Maker's glory seen : 
Look in upon thy wondrous frame, — 
Eternal wisdom still the same ! 

The smooth, soft air with pulse-like waves 
Flows murmuring through its hidden 

caves. 
Whose streamsofbrighteningpurple rush. 
Fired with a new and livelier blush, 
While all their burden of decay 
The ebbing current steals away, 
And red with Nature's flame they start 
From the warm fountains of the heart. 



No rest that throbbing slave may ask. 
Forever quivering o'er his task, 
While far and wide a crimson jet 
Leaps forth to fill the woven net 
Which in unnumbered crossing tides 
The flood of burning life divides. 
Then, kindling each decaying part. 
Creeps back to find the throbbing heart. 

But warmed with that unchanging flame 
Behold the outward moving fiame. 
Its living marbles jointed strong 
With glistening band and silvery thong. 
And linked to reason's guiding reins 
By myriad rings in trembling chains, 
Each graven with the threaded zone 
Which claims it as the master's own. 

See how yon beam of seeming white 
Is braided out of seven-hued light, 
Yet in those lucid globes no ray 
By any chance shall break astray. 
Hark how the rolling surge of sound, 
Aii'lics arid spirals circling round, 
Wakcstlicluished spirit through thine ear 
Witli music it is heaven to hear. 

Then mark the cloven sphere that holds 
All thought in its mysterious folds, 
That feels sensation's faintest thrill, 
And flashes forth the sovereign will ; 
Think on the stormy world tliat dwells 
Locked in its dim and clusteiing cells ! 
The lightning gleams of power it sheds 
Along its hollow glassy threads ! 

Father ! grant thy love divine 
To make these mystic temples thine ! 
When wasting age and wearying strife 
Have sapped the leaning walls of life. 
When darkness gathers over all, 
And the last tottering pillars fall. 
Take the poor dust thy mercy warms, 
And mould it into heavenly forms ! 



DOROTHY Q. 

A FAMILY PORTRAIT. 

Gkandmother's mother; her age, I guess, 
Thirteen summers, or something less ; 
Girlish bust, but womanly air, 
Smooth, square forehead, with uprolled 

hair, 
Lips that lover has never kissed. 
Taper fingers and slender wrist. 



220 



SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 



Hanging sleeves of stiff brocade, — 
So they painted the little maid. 

On her hand a parrot green 
Sits unmoving and broods serene ; 
Hold up the canvas full in view, — 
Look ! there 's a rent the light shines 

through, 
Dark with a century's fringe of dust, — 
That was a Redcoat's rapier-thrust ! 
Such is the tale the lady old, 
Dorothy's daughter's daughter, told. 

"Who the painter was none may tell, — 
One whose best was not over well ; 
Hard and dry, it must be confessed. 
Flat as a rose that has long been pressed ; 
Yet in her cheek the hues are bright, 
Daiuty colors of red and white ; 
And in her slender shape are seen 
Hint and promise of stately mien. 

Look not on her with eyes of scorn, — 
Dorothy Q. was a lady born ! 
Ay ! since the galloping Normans came, 
England's annals have known her name ; 
And still to the three-hilled rebel town 
Dear is that ancient name's renown. 
For many a civic wreath they won, 
The youthful sire and thegray-hairedson. 

damsel Dorothy! Dorothy Q. ! 
Strange is the gift that I owe to you ; 
Such a gift as never a king 
Save to daughter or sou might bring, — 
All my tenure of heart and hand. 
All my title to house and land; 
Mother and sister, and child and wife, 
And joy and sorrow, and death and life ! 

What if a hundred years ago 

Those close-shut lips had answered, No, 

"When forth the tremulous question came 

That cost the maiden her Norman name ; 

And under the folds that look so still 

Tlie bodice swelled with the bosom's thrill ? 

Should I be I, or would it be 

One tenth another to nine tenths me ? 

Soft is the breath of a maiden's Yes : 
Not the light gossamer stirs with less ; 
But never a cable that holds so fast 
Through all the battles of wave and blast, 
And never an echo of speech or song 
That lives in the babbling air so long ! 
There were tones in the voice that whis- 
pered then 
You may hear to-day in a hundred men ! 



lady and lover, how faint and far 
Your images hover, and Iiere we are. 
Solid and stirring in Hesh and bone, — 
Ed ward'sand Dorothy's — alltheirown — 
A goodly record for time to show 

Of a syllable spoken so long ago !-^ 
Shall I bless you, Dorothy, or forgive. 
For tlie tender whisper that bade me live ? 

It shall be a blessing, my little maid ! 

1 will heal the stab of the Redcoat's 

blade, 
And freshen the gold of the tarnished 

frame, 
And gild with a rhyme your household 

name, 
So you shall smile on us brave and bright 
As first you greeted the morning's light, 
And live untioubled by woes and fears 
Through a second youth of a hundred 

years. 



THE VOICELESS. 

We count the broken lyres that rest 
Where the sweet wailing singers slum- 
ber. 
But o'er their silent sister's breast 

The wild-flowers who will stoop to 
number? 
A few can touch the magic string. 

And noisy Fame is jjroud to win 
them : — 
Alas for those that never sing. 

But die with all their music in them! 

Nay, gi-ieve not for the dead alone 

Whose song has told their hearts' sad 
story, — 
Weep for the voiceless, who have known 
The cross without the crown of glory ! 
Not where Leucadian's breezes sweep 

O'er Sappho's memory-haunted billow. 
But where the glistening night-dews 
weep 
On nameless sorrow's churchyard 
pillow. 

hearts that break and give no sign 

Save whitening lip and fading tresses, 
Till Death pours out his cordial wine 

Slow-dropped from Misery's crushing 
presses, — 
If singing breath or echoing chord 

To every hidden pang were given, 
What endless melodies were poured, 

As sad as earth, as sweet as heaven ! 



OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. 



221 



ROBINSON OF LEYDEN. 

He sleeps not here ; in hope and prayer 
His wandering flock had gone before, 

But he, the shepherd, might not share 
Their sorrows on tlie wintry shore. 

Before the Speedwell's anchor swung. 
Ere yet the Mayflower's sail was spread. 

While round his feet the Pilgrims clung, 
The pastor spake, and thus he said : — 

"Men, brethren, sisters, children dear ! 

God calls you hence from over sea ; 
Ye may not build by Haerlem Meer, 

Nor yet along the Zuyder-Zee. 

"Ye go to bear the saving word 
To tribes unnamed and shores untrod : 

Heed well the lessons ye have heard 
From those old teachers taught of God. 

"Yet think not unto them was lent 
All light for all the coming days. 

And Heaven's eternal wisdom s]ient 
In making straight the ancient ways : 

"The living fountain overflows 
For every flock, for every lamb, 

Nor heeds, though angry creeds oppose. 
With Luther's dike or Calvin's dam." 

He spake: with lingering, long embrace. 
With tears of love and partings fond, 

They floated down the creeping Maas, 
Along the isle of Ysselmond. 

They passed the frowning towers of Briel, 
The "Hook of Holland's" shelf of 
sand, 

And grated soon with lifting keel 
The sullen sliores of Fatlierland. 

No home for these ! — too well they knew 
The mitred king behind the throne ; — 

The sails were set, the pennons flew. 
And westward ho ! for worlds unknown. 

— And these were they who gave us birth. 
The Pilgrims of the sunset wave, 

Who won for us this A-ii'gin earth. 
And freedom with the soil they gave. 

The pastor slumbers by the Rhine, — 
In alien earth the exiles lie, — 

Their nameless graves our holiest shrine, 
His words our noblest battle-cry 1 



Still cry them, and the world shall hear, 
Ye dwellers by the storm-swe])t sea ! 

Ye have not built by Haerlem Meer, 
Nor on the land-locked Zuyder-Zee ! 



THE DEACON'S MASTERPIECE; 

OR, THE WONDERFUL " ONE-HOSS SHAY." 

A LOGICAL STORY. 

Have you heard of the wonderful one- 

hoss shay. 
That was built in such a logical way 
It ran a hundred years to a day. 
And then, of a sudden, it — ah, but stay, 
I '11 tell youwhat happened without delay, 
Scaring the parson into fits. 
Frightening people out of their wits, — 
Have you ever heard of that, I say? 

Seventeen hundred and fifty-five. 
Georgius Secundiis was tlien alive, — 
Snuffy old drone from the German hive. 
That was the year when Lisbon-town 
Saw the earth open and gulp her down. 
And Braddock's aiTny was done so brown. 
Left without a scalp to its crown. 
It was on the teirible Earthquake-day 
That the Deacon finished the one-hoss 
shay. 

Now in building of chaises, I tell you 

what. 
There is always sorneivhcre a Aveakest 

spot, — 
In hub, tire, felloe, in spring or thill. 
In panel, or crossbar, or floor, or sill. 
In screw, bolt, thoroughbrace, — lurking 

still. 
Find it somewhere you must and will, — 
Above or below, or within or without, — 
And that 's the reason, beyond a doubt, 
A chaise bi-eaks doum, but does n't wear 

out. 

But the Deacon swore (as Deacons do. 
With an "I dew vum," or an "I tell 

yeou ") 
He would build one shay to beat the taown 
'n' the keounty 'n' all the kentry raoun' ; 
It should be so built that it could n' break 

daown : 
— "Fur," said the Deacon, "'t 's mighty 

plain 



222 



SOXGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 



Thut the weakes' place mus' stan the 

strain ; 
'n' the way t' fix it, iiz I maintain, 

Is only jest 
T' make that place iiz strong uz the rest." 

So the Deacon inquired of the village folk 
Where he could find the strongest oak, 
That couldn't be split nor bent nor 

broke, — 
That was for spokes and floor and sills ; 
He sent for lancewood to make the 

thills ; 
The crossbars were ash, from the straight- 

est trees. 
The panels of white-wood, that cuts like 

cheese. 
But lasts like iron for things like these ; 
The hubs of logs from the "Settler's 

ellum," — 
Last of its timber, — they could n't sell 

'em. 
Never an axe had seen their chips. 
And tlie wedges flew from between their 

lips, 
Their blunt ends frizzled like celery- tips ; 
Step and prop-iron, bolt and screw, 
Spring, tire, axle, and linchpin too, 
Steel of the finest, bright and blue ; 
Thoroughbrace bison-skin, thick and 

wide ; 
Boot, top, dasher, from tough old hide 
Found in the pit when the tanner died. 
That was the way he "puthertlirough." — 
"There!" said the Deacon, "naow she'll 

dew !" 

Do ! I tell you, I rather guess 
She was a wonder, and nothing less ! 
Colts grew horses, beards turned gray, 
Deacon and deaconess dropped away. 
Children ami grandchildren, — where were 

they ? 
But there stood the stout old one-hoss 

shay 
As fresh as on Lisbon-earthquake-day ! 

Eighteen hundred; — it came and 

found 
The Deacon's masterpiece strong and 

sound. 
Eighteen hundred increased by ten; — 
" Hahnsum kerridge" they called it then. 
Eighteen hundred and twenty came; — 
Running as usual ; much the same. 
Thirty and forty at last arrive. 
And then come fifty, and fifty-five. 



Little of all we value here 
Wakes on the morn of its hundredth year 
Without both feeling and looking queer. 
In fact, there 's nothing that keeps its 

youth. 
So far as I know, but a tree and tnith. 
(This is a moral that runs at large ; 
Take it. — You're welcome. — No extra 

charge.) 

First of November, — the Earthquake- 
day.— 
There are traces of age in the one-hoss 

shay, 
A general flavor of mild decay, 
But nothing local as one may say. 
That could n't be, — for the Deacon's art 
Had made it so like in every part 
That there was n't a chance for one to 

start. 
For the wheels were just as strong as the 

thil^ 
And the floor was just as strong as the sills. 
And the panels just as strong as the floor. 
And the whippletree neither less nor more, 
And the back-crossbar as strong as the fore, 
And spring and axle and hub encore. 
And yet, as a whole, it is past a doubt 
In another hour it will be worn out! 

First of November, 'Fifty-five ! 
This morning the parson takes a drive. 
Now, small boys, get out of the way ! 
Here comes the wonderful one-hoss shay. 
Drawn by a rat-tailed, ewe-necked bay. 
"Huddup!" said the parson. — Off went 
they. 

The parson was working his Sunday's 

text, — 
Had got to fifthly, and stopped perplexed 
At what the — Moses — -was coming next. 
All at once the horse stood still, 
Close by the meet'n'-house on the hill. 

— First a shiver, and then a thrill, 
Then something decidedly like a spill, — 
And the parson was sitting upon a rock. 
At half past nine by the meet'n'-house 

clock, — 
Just the hour of the Earthquake shock ! 

— What do you think the parson found. 
When he got up and stared around ? 
The poor old chaise in a heap or mound. 
As if it had been to the mill and ground ! 
You see, of course, if you 're not a dunce, 
How it went to pieces all at once, — 




There!' said the Deacon, ' naow she'll dew!'" — Page 222. 



w 



OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. 



223 



All at once, and nothing first, 
Just as bubbles do when they burst. 

End of the wonderful one-hoss shay. 
Logic is logic. That's all I say. 



THE CHAMBERED KAUTILUS. 

This is the ship of pearl, which, poets 

feign, 

Sails the unshadowed main, — 

The venturous bark that flings 

On the sweet summer wind its [airpled 

wings 
In gulfs enchanted, where the Siren sings, 

And coral reefs lie bare. 
Where the cold sea-maids rise to sun 
their streaming hair. 

Its webs of living gauze no m,pre unfurl ; 
Wrecked is the ship of p*arl ! 
And every chambered cell. 
Where its dim dreaming life was wont 

to dwell. 
As the fiail tenant shaped his growing 
shell. 
Before thee lies revealed, — 
Its irised ceiling rent, its sunless crypt 
unsealed ! 

Year after year beheld tlie silent toil 
That spread his lustrous coil ; 
Still, as the spiral grew. 
He left the past year's dwelling for the 

new. 
Stole with soft step its shining archway 
through, 
Built up its idle door. 
Stretched in his last-found home, and 
knew the old no more. 

Thanks for the heavenly message brought 
by thee. 
Child of the wandering sea, 
Cast from her lap, forlorn ! 
From thy dead lips a clearer note is born 
Than ever Triton blew from wreathed 
horn ! 
W^hile on mine ear it rings, 
Through the deep caves of thought I hear 
a voice that sings : — 

Build thee more statel}'^ mansions, my 
soul. 
As the swift seasons roll ! 



Leave thy low-vaulted past ! 
Let each new "temple, nobler than the last, 
Shut thee from lieaven with a dome more 
vast. 
Till thou at length art free. 
Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's 
unresting sea ! 



UNDER THE VIOLETS. 

Her hands are cold ; her face is white ; 
No more her pulses come and go ; 

Her eyes are shut to life and light; — 
Fold the M'hite vesture, snow on snow, 
And lay her where the violets blow. 

But not beneath a graven stone. 
To plead for tears with alien eyes ; 

A slender cross of wood alone 
Shall say, that here a maiden lies 
In peace beneath the peaceful skies. 

And gray old trees of hugest limb 

Shall wheel their circling shadows 
round 
To make the scorching sunlight dim 
That drinks the greenness from the 

ground, 
And drop their dead leaves on her 
mound. 

When o'er their boughs the squirrels run. 
And through their leaves the robins 
call, 

And, ripening in the autumn sun. 
The acorns and the chestnuts fall. 
Doubt not that she will heed them all. 

For her the morning choir shall sing 
Its matins from the branches high, 

And every minstrel-voice of Spring, 
That trills beneath the April sky. 
Shall greet her with its earliest cry. 

When, turning round their dial-track, 
Eastward the lengtheningshadows pass. 

Her little mourners, clad in black. 
The crickets, sliding through the grass, 
Shall pipe for her an evening mass. 

At last the rootlets of the trees 

Shall find the prison where she lies, 

And bear the buried dust they seize 
In leaves and Vilossoms to the skies. 
So mav the soul that warmed it rise ! 



224 



SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 



If any, born of kindlier blood, 

Should ask. What maiden lies below? 

Say only this : A tender bud. 

That tried to blossom in the snow, 
Lies withered where the violets blow. 



JAMES EUSSELL LOWELL. 



[U. S. A.] 



THE HERITAGE. 



The rich man's son inherits lands. 
And piles of brick, and stone, and gold. 

And he inherits soft, white hands. 
And tender Hesh that fears the cold, 
Nor dares to wear a garment old ; 

A heritage, it seems to me, 

One scarce would wish to hold in fee. 

The rich man's son inherits cares ; 
The bank may break, the factory burn, 

A breath may burst his bubble shares. 
And soft, white hands could hardly earn 
A living that would serve his turn ; 

A heritage, it seems to me. 

Cue scarce would wish to hold in fee. 

The rich man's son inherits wants, 
His stomach craves for dainty fare ; 

"With sated heart, he hears tlie pants 
Of toiling hinds with brown arms bare. 
And wearies in his easy chair ; 

A heritage, it seems to me, 

One scarce would wish to hold in fee. 

What doth the poor man's son inherit ? 
Stout muscles and a sinewy heart, 

A hardy frame, a liardier spirit ; 

King of two hands, he does his part 
In eveiy useful toil and art ; 

A heritage, it seems to me, 

A king might wish to hold in fee. 

What doth the poor man's son inherit? 
Wishes o'erjoyed with humble things, 

A rank adjudged by toil-won merit, 
Content that from employment springs, 
A heart that in his labor sings ; 

A lieritage, it seems to me, 

A king might wish to liold in fee. 

What doth the poor man's son inherit? 

A patience learned by being poor, 
Courage, if sorrow come, to bear it, 



A fellow-feeling that is sure 
To make the outcast bless his door; 
A heritage, it seems to me, 
A king might wish to hold in fee. 

rich man's son ! there is a toil. 
That with all others level stands; 

Large charity doth never soil, 

But only whiten, soft, white hands, - 
This is the best crop from thy lands; 

A heritage, it seems to me. 

Worth being rich to hold in fee. 

poor man's son ! scorn not thy state; 
There is worse weariness than thine, 

In merely being lich and great; 
Toil only gives the soul to shine. 
And makes rest fragrant and benign ; 

A heritage, it seems to me. 

Worth being poor to hold in fee. 

Both, heuis to some six feet of sod. 
Are wTal in the earth at last ; 

])0th, children of the same dear God, 
Prove title to your heirship vast 
By record of a well-filled past ; 

A heritage, it seems to me, 

Well worth a life to hold in fee. 



NEW ENGLAND SPRING. 

(From " The Biglow Papers.") 

I, COUNTRY-BORN an' bred, know whore 

to find 
Some blooms thet make the season suit 

the mind. 
An' seem to metch the doubtin' blue- 
bird's notes, — 
Half-vent'rin' liverworts in furry coats. 
Blood-roots, whose roUed-up leaves ef 

fur oncurl. 
Each on em 's cradle to a baby-pearl, — 
But these are jes' Spring's pickets ; sure 

ez sin. 
The rebble frosts '11 try to drive 'em in ; 
For half our May 's soawfully like May n't 
'T would rile a Shaker or an evri<.'e .«aint ; 
Though I own up I like our back'ard 

springs 
Thet kind o' haggle with their greens an' 

things. 
An' when you 'most give up, 'ithout more 

words. 
Toss the fields full o' blossoms, 

birds : 



JAMES EUSSELL LOWELL. 



225 



Thet 's Northun natur', slow an' apt to 

doubt, 
But when it does git stirred, there 's no 

gin-out ! 

Fust come the blackbirds clatt'rin' in 

tall trees, 
A n' settlin' things in windy Congresses, — 
Queer politicians, though, for I '11 be 

skinned 
Ef all on 'em don't head against the wind. 
'P'ore long the trees begin to show belief. 
The maple crimsons to a coral-reef, 
Then saffron swarms swing otf from all 

the willers, 
So plump they look like yaller caterpillars, 
Then gray hosschesnuts leetle hands un- 
fold 
Softer 'n a baby's be a' three days old : 
Thet 's robin-redbreast's almanick ; he 

knows 
Thet arter this ther' 's onhf blossom- 
snows ; 
So, choosin' out a handy crotch an' spou.se, 
He goes to plast'rin' his adobe house. 

ifhen seems to come a hitch, — things lag 

behind. 
Till some fine mornin' Spring makes up 

her mind, 
An* ez, when snow-swelled rivers cresh 

their dams 
Heaped up with ice thet dovetails in an' 

jams, 
A leak conies spirtin' thru some pin-hole 

cleft. 
Grows stronger, fercer, tears out right an' 

left. 
Then all the waters bow themselves an' 

come, 
Suddin, in one gret slope o' shedderin 

foam, 
Jes' so our Spring gits everythin' in tune 
An' gives one leap from April into June ; 
Then all conies crowdin' in ; afore you 

think, 
Young oak-leaves mist the side-hill woods 

with pink ; 
The cat-bird in the laylock-bush is loud ; 
The orchards turn to heaps o' rosy cloud ; 
Ked-cedars blossom tu, though few folks 

know it, 
An' look all dipt in sunshine like a poet : 
The lime-trees pile their solid stacks o' 

shade 
An' drows'ly simmer with the bees' sweet 

trade ; 



In ellum shrouds the flashin' hang-bird 

clings. 
An' for the summer vy'ge his hammock 

slings ; 
All down the loose- walled lanes in archin' 

bowers 
The barb'ry droops its strings o' golden 

flowers. 
Whose shrinkin' hearts the school-gals 

love to try 
With pins — they '11 worry yourn so, 

boys, bimeby ! 
But I don't love your cat'logue style, — 

do you? — 
Ez ef to sell off' Natur' by vendoo ; 
One word with blood in 't 's twice ez 

good ez two : 
Nutt' sed, June 's bridesman, poet of the 

year, 
Gladness on wings, the bobolink, is here ; 
Half hid in tip-top apple -blooms he 

swings. 
Or climbs aginst the breeze with quiv- 

erin' wings, 
Or, givin' way to 't in a mock despair. 
Runs down, a brook o' laughter, thru 

the air. 



THE COTJRTIN'. 

God makes sech nights, all white an' still 
Fur 'z you can look or listen. 

Moonshine an' snow on field an' hill, 
All silence an' all glisten. 

Zekle crep' up quite unbeknown 
An' peeked in thru the winder. 

An' there sot Huldy all alone, 
'Ith no one nigh to hender. 

A fireplace filled the room's one side 
With half a cord o' wood in — 

There warnt no stoves (tell comfort died) 
To bake ye to a puddin'. 

The wa'nut logs shot sparkles out 
Towards the pootiest, bless her. 

An' leetle flames danced all about 
The chiny on the dresser. 

Agin the chimbley crook-necks hung. 

An' in amongst 'em rusted 
Theole queen's-arm thet gran'ther Young 

Fetched back from Concord busted. 

The very room, coz she was in, 
Seemed warm from floor to ceilin', 



226 



SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 



An' she looked full ez rosy agin 
Ez the apples she was peelin'. 

'T was kin' o' kingdom-come to look 

On sech a blessed cretur, 
A dogrose blushin' to a brook 

Ain't niodester nor sweeter. 

He was six foot o' man, A 1, 
Clean grit an' human natur' ; 

None could n't quicker pitch a ton 
Nor dror a furrer straighter. 

He 'd sparked it with full twenty gals, 
Hed squired 'em, danced 'em, druv 'em, 

Fust this one, an' then thet, by spells — 
All is, he couldn't love 'em. 

But long o' her his veins 'ould run 
All crinkly like curled majde. 

The side she breshed felt full o' sun 
Ez a south slope in Ap'il. 

She thought no v'ice hed sech a swing 

Ez hisn in the choir ; 
My ! when he made Ole Hunderd ring, 

She knoived the Lord was niglier. 

An' she 'd blush scarlit, right in prayer, 
When her new meetin'-bunnet 

Felt somehow thru its crown a pair 
0' blue eyes sot upon it. 

Thet night, I tell ye, she looked some ! 

She seemed to 've gut a new soul, 
For she felt sartin-sure he 'd come, 

Down to her very shoe-sole. 

She heered a foot, an' knowed it tu, 

A-raspin' on the scraper, — 
All ways to once her feelins flew 

Like sparks in burnt-up paper. 

He kin' o' I'itered on the mat, 

Some doubtfle o' the sekle, 
His heart kep' goin' pity-pat, 

But hern went pity Zekle. 

An' yit she gin her cheer a jerk 
Ez though she wished him furder, 

An' on her apples kep' to work, 
Pariu' away like murder. 

"You want to see my Pa, I s'pose?" 
"Wal .... no .... I come da- 
signin' " — 

"To see my Ma ? She 's sprinklin' clo'es 
Agin to-morrer's i'niu'." 



To say why gals act so or so. 
Or don't, 'ould be presumin' ; 

Mebby to mean yes an' say no 
Comes nateral to women. 

He stood a spell on one foot fust. 
Then stood a spell on t' other, 

An' on which one he felt the wust 
He could n't ha' told ye nuther. 

Says he, "I 'd better call agin" ; 

Says she, "Think likely, Mister" ; 
Thet last word pricked him like a pin, 

An' .... Wal, he up an' kist her. 

When Ma bimeby upon 'em slips, 

Huldy sot pale ez ashes. 
All kin' o' smily roun' the lips 

An' teary roun' the lashes. 

For she was jes' tlie quiet kind 

Whose naturs never vary, 
Like streajjas that keep a summer mind 

Snowhid in Jenooary. 

The blood clost roun' her heart felt glued 

Too tight for all expressin', 
Tell mother see how metters stood, 

An' gin 'em both her blessin'. 

Then her red come back like the tide 

Down to the Bay o' Fundy, 
An' all I know is they was cried 

In meetin' come nex' Sunday. 



AMBROSE. 

Never, surely, was holier man 

Than Ambrose, since the world began ; 

With diet spare and raiment thin 

He shielded himself from the father of sin ; 

With bed of iron and scourgings oft. 

His heart to God's hand as wax made soft. 

Through earnest prayer and watchings 

long 
He sought to know 'twixt right and 

wrong, 
Much wrestling with the blessed Word 
To make it yield the sense of the Lord, 
That he might build a storm -])roof creed 
To fold the flock in at their need. 

At last he builded a perfect faith. 
Fenced round about with The Lord thus 

saith ; 
To himself he fitted the doorway's size. 
Meted the light to the need of his eyes, 



{^ ^ '^ 



r^v:- 







'Says he, 'I 'd better call agin.'" — Page 226. 



JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 



227 



And knew, by a snre and inward sign, 
Tliat the work of his lingers was divine. 

Tlien Ambrose said, "All those shall die 
The eternal death who believe not as I " ; 
And some were boiled, some burned in tire, 
Some sawn in twain, that his heart's de- 
sire, 
For the good of men's souls, might be 

satisfied. 
By the drawing of all to the righteous 
side. 

One day, as Ambrose was seekingthetruth 
In his lonely walk, he saw a youth 
Eesting himself in the shade of a tree ; 
It had never been given him to see 
So shining a face, and the good man 

thought 
'T were pity he should not believe as 

he ought. 

So he set himself by the young man's side, 

x\nd the state of his soul with questions 
tried ; 

But the heart of the stranger was hard- 
ened indeed. 

Nor received the stamp of the one true 
creed. 

And the spirit of Ambrose waxed sore to 
find 

Such face the porch of so uanow a mind. 

"As each beholds in cloud and fire 
The shape that answers his own desire. 
So each," said the youth, "in the Law 

shall find 
The figure and features of his mind ; 
And to each in his mercy hath God al- 
lowed 
His several i>illar of fire and cloud." 

The soul of Ambrose burned with zeal 
And holy wrath for the youngman's weal : 
"Believest thou then, most wretched 

j'outh," 
Cried he, "a dividual essence in Truth? 
I fear me thy heart is too cramped with 

sin 
To take the Lord in his glory in." 

Now there bubbled beside them where 

they stood 
A fountain of waters sweet and good ; 
The youtli to the streamlet's brink drew 

near 
Saying, "Ambrose, thou maker of creeds, 

look here!" 



Six vases of crystal then he took, 
And set them along the edge of the 
brook. 

"As into these vessels the water I pour, 
There shall one hold less, another more. 
And the water unchanged, in everj' case, 
Shall put on the figure of the vase ; 
thou, who wouldst unity make through 

strife. 
Canst thou fit this sign to the "Water of 

Life?" 

When Ambrose looked up, he stood alone, 
The youth and the stream and the vases 

were gone ; 
But he knew, by a sensp of humbled grace. 
He had talked with an angel face to face. 
And felt his heart change inwardly. 
As he fell on his knees beneath the tree. 



AFTER THE BiniLA.L. 

Yes, faith is a goodly anchor ; 
When skies are sweet as a psalm, 
At the bows it lolls so stalwart. 
In bluff, broad-shouldered calm. 

And when over breakers to leeward 
The tattered surges are huiied. 
It may keep our head to the tempest. 
With its grij) on the base of the woild. 

But, after the shipwreck, tell me 
What help in its iron thews. 
Still true to the liroken hawser. 
Deep clown among sea-weed and ooze ? 

In the breaking gulfs of sorrow, 
AVhen the helpless feet stretch out 
And find in the deeps of darkness 
Xo footing so solid as doubt. 

Then better one spar of ilemorj'. 
One broken plank of the Past, 
That our human heart may cling to. 
Though hopeless of shore at last ! 

To the spirit its splendid conjectures. 
To the flesh its sweet despair. 
Its tears o'er the thin-worn locket 
With its anguish of deathless hair ! 

Immortal ? I feel it and know it, 
Who doubts it of such as she ? 
But that is the pang's very secret, — 
Immortal away from me. 



228 



SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 



There 's a narrow ridge in the graveyard 
Wouki scarce stay a child in his race, 
But to me and my thought it is wider 
Than the star-sown vague of Space. 

Your logic, my friend, is perfect. 
Your morals most drearily true ; 
But, since the earth clashed on her coffin, 
I keep hearing that, and not you. 

Console if you will, I can bear it ; 
'T is a well-meant alms of breath ; 
But not all the ])reaching since Adam 
lias made Death other than Death. 

It is pagan ; but wait till you feel it, — 
Tliat jar of our earth, that dull shock 
"When the ploughshare of deeper passion 
Tears down to our primitive rock. 

Communion in spirit ! Forgive me. 
But I, who am earthy and weak. 
Would give all my incomes from dream- 
land 
For a touch of her hand on my cheek. 

That little shoe in the corner. 
So worn and wrinkled and brown, 
With its emptiness confutes you, 
And argues your wisdom down. 



COMMEMORATION ODE. 

Harvard University, July 21, 1S65. 

Life may be given in many ways, 
And loyalty to Truth be sealed 
As bravely in the closet as the field. 
So generous is Fate ; 
But then to stand beside her. 
When craven churls deride her. 
To front a lie in arms, and not to yield, — 
This shows, methinks, God's plan 
And measure of a stalwart man. 
Limbed like the old heroic breeds, 
Who stand self-poised on manhood's 

solid earth, 
Not forced to frame excuses for his 
birth. 
Fed from within with all the strength he 

needs. 
Such was he, our Martyr-Chief, 

Whom late the Nation he had led. 
With ashes on her head. 
Wept with the passion of an angry grief : 



Forgive me, if from present things I 

turn 
To speak what in my heart will beat and 

burn. 
And hang my wreath on his world-hon- 
ored urn. 
Nature, they say, doth dote, 
And cannot make a man 
Save on some worn-out plan, 
Repeating us by rote : 
For him her Old-World moulds aside 
she threw. 
And, choosing sweet clay from the 

breast 
Of the unexhausted West, 
With stuff untainted shaped a liero new. 
Wise, steadfast in the strength of God, 
and true. 
How beautiful to see 
Once more a shej)herd of mankind indeed, 
Who loved his charge, but never loved 

to lead ; 
One whose meek flock the people joyed 
to be. 
Not lured by any cheat of birth. 
But by his clear-grained human 
worth. 
And brave old wisdom of sincerity ! 

They knew that outward grace is 

dust ; 
They could not choose but trust 
In that sure-footed mind's unfaltering 
skill. 
And supple-tempered will 
That bent like perfect steel to spring 
again and thrust. 
His was no lonely mountain-peak 

of mind. 
Thrusting to thin air o'er our cloudy 

bars, 
A seamark now, now lost in vapors 

blind; 
Broad prairie rather, genial, level- 
lined. 
Fruitful and friendly for all human 
kind. 
Yet also nigh to Heaven and loved of 
loftiest stars. 
Nothing of Europe here, 
Or, then, of Europe fronting mornward 
still. 
Ere any names of Serf and Peer 
Could Nature's e(iual scheme deface ; 
Here was a type of the true elder 
race, 
And one of Plutarch's men talked with 
us face to face. 



MARIA WHITE LOWELL. 



229 



I praise him not ; it were too late ; 
And some innative weakness there must 

be 
In him who condescends to victory 
Such as the Present gives, and cannot 
wait, 
Safe in himself as in a fate. 
So always firmly he : 
He knew to bide his time, 
And can his fame abide, 
Still patient in his simjjle faith sublime. 
Till the wise years decide. 
Great captains, with their guns and 

drums, 
Disturb our judgment for the hour. 
But at last silence comes : 
These all are gone, and, standing like a 

tower. 
Our children shall behold his fame, 
The kindly-earnest, brave, foreseeing 
man, 
Sagacious, patient, dreading praise, not 
blame. 
New birth of our new soil, the first 
American. 



"We sit here in the Promised Land 
That flows with Freedom's honey and 

milk : 
But 't was they won it, sword in hand, 
Making the nettle danger soft for us as 
silk. 
We welcome back our bravest and our 

best; — 
Ah, me ! not all ! some come not with 
the rest. 
Who went forth brave and bright as any 

here ! 
I strive to mix some gladness with my 
strain, 
But the sad strings complain, 
And will not please the ear; 
I sweep them for a paean, but they wane 

Again and yet again 
Into a dirge, and die away in pain. 
In these brave ranks I only see the gaps, 
Thinking of dear ones whom the dumb 

turf wraps. 
Dark to the triumph which they died to 
gain : 
Fitlier may others greet the living, 
For me the past is unforgiving; 
I with uncovered head 
Salute the sacred dead. 
Who went, and who return not. — 
Say not so ! 



'T is not the grapes of Canaan that repa}', 

But the liigh faith tliat failed not by the 
way; 

Virtue treads paths that end not in the 
grave ; 

No bar of endless night exiles the brave ; 
And to the saner mind 

We rather seem the dead that stayed be- 
hind. 

Blow, trumpets, all your exultations blow ! 

For never shall their aureoled presence 
lack: 

I see them muster in a gleaming row. 

With ever-youthful brows that nobler 
show ; 

We find in our dull road their shining 
track ; 
In every nobler mood 

We feel the orient of their spirit glow, 

Part of our life's unalterable good. 

Of all our saintlier aspiration ; 

They come transfigured back. 

Secure from change in their high-hearted 
Avays, 

Beautiful evermore, and with the rays 

Of morn on their white Shields of Ex- 
pectation ! 



MARIA WHITE LOWELL. 

[U. S. A., 1821-1S53.] 



THE ALPINE SHEEP. 

When on my ear your loss was knelled, 
And tender sympathy upburst, 

A little spring from memory welled, 
Which once had quenched my bitter 
thirst. 

And I was fain to bear to you 

A portion of its mild relief. 
That it might be as healing dew. 

To steal some fever from your grief. 

After our child's untroubled breath 
Up to the Father took its way, 

And on our home the shade of Death 
Like a long twilight haunting lay, 

And friends came round, with us to weep 
Her little spiiit's swift remove. 

The story of the Alpine sheep 
Was told to us by one we love. 



230 



SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 



They, in tlie valley's sheltering care, 
Soon crop the meadow's tender ])rime. 

And when the sod grows brown and bare, 
The shepherd strives to make them 
climb 

To airy shelves of pasture green, 

That hang along the mountain's side, 

"Where grass and flowers together lean, 
And down through mist the sunbeams 
slide. 

But naught can tempt the timid things 
The steep and rugged paths to try, 

Though sweet the shepherd calls and 
sings, 
And seared below the pastures lie, 

Till in his arms their lambs he takes, 
Along the dizzy verge to go ; 

Then, heedless of the rifts and breaks, 
They follow on, o'er rock and snow. 

And in those pastures, lifted fair, 
More dewy-soft tlian lowland mead. 

The shepherd drops liis tender care. 
And sheep and lambs together feed. 

This parable, by N'ature breathed, 
Blew on me as the south-wind free 

O'ei- frozen brooks, that flow unsheathed 
From icy thraldom to the sea. 

A blissful vision, through the night, 
Would all my happy senses sway, 

Of the good Shepherd on the height, 
Or climbing up the starry way, 

Holding our little lamb asleep, — 
While, like the murmur of the sea, 

Sounded that voice along the deep. 
Saying, "Arise and follow me !" 



THOMAS W. PARSONS. 

[U. S. A.] 

CAMPANILE DE PISA. 

Snow was glistening on the mountains, 
but the air was that of June, 

Leaves were falling, but the runnels play- 
ing still their summer tune, 



And the dial's lazy shadow hovered nigh 

the brink of noon. 
On the benches in the market, rows of 

languid idlers lay. 
When to Pisa's nodding belfry, with a 

friend, I took my way. 

From the top we looked around us, and 

as far as eye might strain, 
Saw no sign of life or motion in the town, 

or on the plain. 
Hardly seemed the river moving, through 

the willows to the main ; 
Nor was any noise disturbing Pisa from 

her drowsy hour. 
Save the doves that fluttered 'neath us, 

in and out and round the tower. 

Not a shout from gladsome children, or 

the clatter of a wheel, 
Nor the spinner of the subuib, winding 

his discordant reel. 
Nor the stroke upon the pavement of a 

hoof or of a heel. 
Even the slumberers, in the churchyard 

of the Campo Santo seemed 
Scarce more quiet than the living world 

that underneath us dreamed. 

Dozing at the city's portal, heedless guard 

the sentry kept. 
More than oriental dulness o'er the sunny 

farms had crept. 
Near the walls the ducal herdsman by the 

dusty roadside slept ; 
While his camels, resting round him, 

half alarmed the sullen ox. 
Seeing those Arabian monsters pasturing 

with Etruria's flocks. 

Then it was, like one who wandered, late- 
ly, singing by the Khiue, 

Strains perchance to maiden's hearing 
sweeter tiian this verse of mine. 

That we bade Imagination lift us on her 
wing divine. 

And the days of Pisa's greatness rose from 
the sepulchral past, 

When a thousand concpiering galleys bore 
her standard at the mast. 

Memory for a moment crowned her sov- 
ereign mistress of the seas. 

When she Ijraved, upon the billows, Ven- 
ice and the Genoese, 

Daring to deride the Pontiff", though he 
shook his angry keys. 



THOMAS W. PARSONS. 



231 



When her admirals triumphant, riding 

o'er the Soldan's waves, 
Brought from Calvary's holy mountain 

fitting soil for knightly graves. 

When the Saracen surrendered, one by 

one, his pirate isles, 
And Ionia's marbled tro))hies decked 

Lungarno's Gothic i)iles, 
Wherethe festal music floated in the light 

of ladies' smiles ; 
Soldiers in the busy court-yard, nobles 

in the hall above, 
0, those days of arms are over, — arms and 

courtesy and love ! 

Down in yonder square at sunrise, lo ! 

the Tuscan troops arrayed, 
Every man in Milan armor, forged in 

Brescia every blade : 
Sigisniondi is their captain — Florence ! 

art thou not dismayed ? 
There 's Lanfranchi ! there the bravest of 

Gherardesca stem, 
Hugolino — with the bishop ; but enough, 

enough of them. 



Now, as on Achilles' buckler, next a 
peaceful scene succeeds ; 

Pious crowds in the cathedral duly tell 
their blessed beads ; 

Students walk the learned cloister; 
Ariosto wakes the reeds ; 

Science dawns ; and Galileo opens to the 
Italian youth, 

As he were a new Columbus, new dis- 
covered realms of truth. 

Hark ; what murmurs from the million 

in the bustling market rise ! 
All the lanes are loud with voices, all 

the windows dark with eyes ; 
Black with men the marble 1 }ridges, heaped 

the shores with merchandise ; 
Turks and Greeks and Libyan merchants 

in the square their councils hold. 
And the Christian altars glitter gorgeous 

with Byzantine gold. 

Look ! anon the masqueraders don their 

holiday attire ; 
Every palace is illumined, — all the town 

seems built of tire, — 
Rainbow-colored lanterns dangle from 

the top of every spire. 



Pisa's patron saint hath hallowed to him- 
self the joyful day, 

Never on the thionged liialto showed the 
Carnival more gay. 

Suddenly the bell beneath us broke the 

vision with its chime ; 
"Signors," quoth our gray attendant, 

"it is almost vesper time" ; 
Vulgar life resumed its emj)ire, — down we 

dropt from tlie sublime. 
Here and there a friar passed us, as we 

paced the silent streets. 
And a cardinal's rumbling cariiage roused 

the sleepers from the seats. 



ON A BUST OF DANTE. 

See, from this counterfeit of him 

Whom Arno shall remember long, 
How stern of lineament, how grim 

The father was of Tuscan song. 
There but the buining sense of wrong, 

Perpetual care and scorn abide ; 
Small friendship for the lordly throng; 

Distrust of all the world beside. 

Faithful if this wan image be, 

No dream his life was, — but a fight ; 
Could any Beatrice see 

A lover in that anchoiite? 
To that cold Ghibeline's gloomy sight 

Who could have guessed the visions 
came 
Of beauty, veiled with heavenly light, 

In circles of eternal flame? 

The lips, as Cumse's cavern close. 

The cheeks, with fast and sorrow thin, 
The ligid front, almost morose, 

But for the patient hope within. 
Declare a life whose course hath been 

Unsullied still, though still severe, 
Which, through the wavering days of sin. 

Keep itself icy-chaste and clear. 

Not wholly such his haggard look 

When wandering once, forlorn he 
strayed. 
With no companion save his book, 

To Corvo's hushed monastic shade: 
Where, as the Benedictine laid 

His palm upon the pilgrim -guest, 
The single boon for which he )>rayed 

The convent's charity was rest. 



232 



SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 



Peace dwells not here, — this rugged face 

Betrays no spirit of repose ; 
The sullen warrior sole we trace, 

The marble man of many woes. 
Such was his mien when first arose 

The thought of that strange tale divine, 
AVhen hell he peopled with his foes. 

The scourge of many a guilty line. 

War to the last he waged with all 

The tyrant canker-worms of earth ; 
Baron and duke, in hold and hall, 

Curseil the dark hour that gave him 
birth ; 
He used Rome's harlot for his mirth ; 

Plucked bare hypocrisy and crime ; 
But valiant souls of knightly worth 

Transmitted to the rolls of Time. 

Time ! whose verdicts mock our own, 

The only righteous judge art thou; 
That poor old exile, sad and lone, 

Is Latium's other Virgil now : 
B.^fore his name the nations bow : 

His words are parcel of mankind, 
Deep in whose hearts, as on his brow. 

The marks have sunk of Dante's mind. 



JOHN G. SAXE. 

[U.S.A.] 

WISHING. 

Of all amusements for the mind, 

From logic down to Kshing, 
There is n't one that you can find 

So very cheap as "wishing." 
A very choice diversion too, 

If we but rightly use it. 
And not, as we are apt to do, 

Pervert it, and abuse it. 

I wish — a common wish, indeed — 

My purse were somewhat fatter. 
That 1 might cheer the child of need. 

And not my pride to flatter ; 
That I might make Oppression reel. 

As only gold can make it. 
And break the Tyrant's rod of steel, 

As only gold can break it. 

I wish — that Sympathy and Love, 
And every human passion 



That has its origin above. 

Would co7ne and keep in fashion ; 
That Scorn and Jealousy and Hate, 

And every base emotion, 
Were buried fifty fathom deep 

Beneath the waves of Ocean ! 

I wish — that friends were always true, 

And motives always pure ; 
I wish the good were not so few, 

I wish the bad were fewer ; 
I wish that parsons ne'er forgot 

To heed their pious teaching ; 
I wish that practising was not 

So different from jjreaching ! 

I wish — that modest worth might be 

Appraised with truth and candor ; 
I wish that innocence were free 

From treachery and slander ; 
I wish that men their vows would mind ; 

That women ne'er were rovers ; 
I wish that wives were always kind. 

And husbands always lovers ! 

I wish — in fine — that Joy and Mirth, 

And every good Ideal, 
May come erewhile throughout the earth 

To be the glorious Real ; 
Till God shall every creature bless 

With his supremest blessing. 
And Hope be lost in Happiness, 

And Wishing in Possessing ! 



SLEEP AND DEATH. 

Two wandering angels, Sleep and Death, 
Once met in sunny weather : 

And while the twain were taking breath. 
They held discourse together. 

Quoth Sleep (whose face, though twice 
as fair. 

Was strangely like the other's, — 
So like, in sooth, that anywhere 

They might have passed for brothers) : 



"A busy life is mine, I trow, 
Would I were omnipresent ! 

So fast and far have I to go ; 
And yet my work is pleasant. 

" I cast my potent poppies forth, 
And lo ! — the cares that cumber 



SAEAH HELEN WHITMAN. 



233 



The toiling, suffering sons of earth 
Are drowned in sweetest slun\ber, 

"The student rests his weary brain, 
And waits the fresher morrow ; 

I ease the patient of his pain, 
The mourner of his sorrow, 

' ' I bar tlie gates where cares abide, 

And ojjen Pleasure's portals 
To visioned joys ; thus, far and wide, 
• I earn the praise of mortals." 

" Alas ! " replied the other, " mine 

Is not a task so gi'ateful ; 
Howe'er to mercy I incline. 

To mortals I am hateful. 

"They call me ' Kill-joy,' every one, 
And speak in sharp detraction 

Of all I do ; yet have I done 
Full many a kindly action." 

" Tnie ! " answered Sleep, "but all the 
while 

Thine office is berated, 
'T is only by the vile and weak 

That thou art feared and hated. 

"And though thy work on earth has 
given 

To all a shade of sadness ; 
Consider — every saint in heaven 

Eemembers thee with gladness ! " 



SARAH HELEN WHITMAN. 

[U. S. A.] 

A STILL DAY IN AUTUMN. 

I LOVE to wander through the wood- 
lands hoary 
In the soft light of an autumnal day, 
"When Sunmier gathers up her robes of 
glory, 
And like a dream of beauty glides 
away. 

How through each loved, familiar path 
she lingei-s, 
Serenely smiling through the golden 
mist. 



Tinting the wild grape with her dewy 
fingers 
Till the cool emerald turns to ame- 
thyst : 

Kindling the faint stars of the hazel, 
shining 
To light the gloom of Autumn's moul- 
dering halls 
With hoary plumes the clematis entwin- 
ing 
Where o'er the rock her withered gar- 
land falls. 

Warm lights are on the sleepy uplands 
waning 
Beneath soft clouds along the horizon 
rolled, 
Till the slant sunbeams through their 
fringes raining 
Bathe all the hills in melancholy gold. 

The moist winds breathe of crisped 
leaves and flowers 
In the damp hollows of the woodland 
sown, 
Mingling the freshness of autumnal 
showers 
With spicy airs from cedaru alleys 
blown. 

Beside the brook and on the umbered 
meadow. 
Where yellow fern-tufts fleck the faded 
ground, 
With folded lids beneath their palmy 
shadow 
The gentian nods, in dewy slumbers 
bound. 

Upon those soft, fringed lids the bee sits 
brooding, 
Like a fond lover loath to say farewell, 
Or with shut wings, through silken 
folds intruding, 
Creeps near her heart his drowsy tale 
to tell. 

The little birds upon the hillside lonely 
Flit noiselessly along from spray to 
spray. 
Silent as a sweet wandering thought 
that only 
Shows its bright wings and softly 
glides away. 



234 



SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 



ALFRED B. STREET. 

[U. S. A.] 

THE SETTLER. 

His echoing axe the settler swung 

Amid the sea-like solitude, 
And, rushing, thundering, down were 
flung 

The Titans of the wood ; 
Loud shrieked the eagle, as he dashed 
From out his mossy nest, which crashed 

With its supporting bough, 
And the first sunlight, leaping, flashed 

On the wolfs haunt below. 

Rude was the garb, and strong the frame 

Of hhn who plied his ceaseless toil : 
To form that garb the wild-wood game 

Contributed their spoil ; 
The soul that warmed that frame dis- 
dained 
The tinsel, gaud, and glare, that reigned 

Where men their ci'owds collect ; 
The simple fur, uutrimmed, unstained, 

This forest-tamer decked. 

The paths which wound mid gorgeous 
trees. 

The stream whose bright lips kissed 
their flowers. 
The winds that swelled their harmonies 

Through those sun-hiding bowers. 
The temple vast, the green arcade. 
The nestling vale, the grassy glade, 

Dark cave, and swampy lair : 
These scenes and sounds majestic made 

His world, his pleasures, there. 

His roof adonied a pleasant spot, 

Mid the black logs green glowed the 
grain, 
And herbs and plants the woods knew 
not 

Throve in the sun and rain. 
The smoke-wreath curling o'er the dell. 
The low, the bleat, the tinkling bell. 

All made a landscape strange, 
Whicli was the living chronicle 

Of deeds that wrought the change. 

The violet sprung at spring's first tinge, 
The rose of summer spread its glow, 

The maize hung out its autumn fringe, 
Rude winter brought his snow ; 

And still the lone one labored there, 



His shout and whistle broke the air, 

As cheerily he plied 
His garden-spade, or drove his share 

Along the hillock's side. 

He marked the fire-storm's blazing flood 

Roaring and crackling on its j)ath, 
And scorching earth, and melting wood, 

Beneath its greedy wrath ; 
He marked the rapid whirlwind shoot, 
Trampling the pine-tree with its foot, 

And darkening thick the day 
With streaming bough and severed root, 

Hurled whizzing on its way. 

His gaunt hound yelled, his rifle flashed, 

The grim bear hushed his savage growl ; 
In blood and and foam the panthfer 
gnashed 

His fangs, with dying howl ; 
The fleet deer ceased its flying bound, 
Its snarling wolf-foe bit the ground. 

And, with its moaning cry. 
The beaver sank beneath the wound 

Its pond-built Venice by. 

Humble the lot, yet his the race, 

W^hen Liberty sent forth her cry. 
Who thronged in conflict's deadliest 
place. 

To fight,— to bleed,— to die ! 
Who cumbered Bunker's height of red, 
By hope through weary years were led, 

And witnessed Yorktown's sun 
Blaze on a nation's banner spread, 

A nation's freedom won. 



CHRISTOPHER P. CRANCH. 

[U. S. A.] 

STANZAS. 

Thought is deeper than all speech. 
Feeling deeper than all thought ; 

Souls to souls can never teach 

What unto themselves was taught. 

We are spirits clad in veils ; 

Man by man was never seen ; 
All our deep communing fails 

To remove the shadowy screen. 

Heart to heart was never known, 
Mind with mind did never meet ; 



WILLIAM E. CHANNING. — JULIA WAED HOWE. 



235 



"We are columns left alone 
Of a temple once complete. 

Like the stars that gem the sky, 
Far apart, though seeming near, 

In our light we scattered lie ; 
All is thns but starlight here. 

W'liat is social company 

But a babbling summer stream? 
What our wise philosophy 

But the glancing of a dream ? 

Only when the sun of love 

Rlelts the scattered stars of thought ; 
Only when we live above 

What the dim-eyed world hath taught ; 

Only when our souls are fed 

By the Fount which gave them birth. 
And by inspiration led, 

Which they never drew from earth. 

We like parted drops of rain 
iS welling till they meet and mn, 

Shall be all absorbed again. 
Melting, flowing into one. 



WILLIAM E. CHANGING. 

[U. S. A.] 

SLEEPY HOLLOW. 

No abbey's gloom, nor dark cathedral 
stoops, 
No winding torches paint the midnight 
air; 
Here the gi-een pines delight, the aspen 
droops 
Along the modest pathways, and those 
fair 
Pale asters of the season spread their 
plumes 
Around this field, fit garden for our 
tombs. 

And shalt thou pause to hear some fu- 
neral bell 
Slow stealing o'er thy heart in this 
calm place, 
Not with a throb of pain, a feverish knell, 
But in its kind and supplicating grace, 



It says, Go, pilgrim, on thy march, be 
more 
Friend to the friendless than thou wast 
before ; 

Learn from the loved one's rest serenity ; 
To-morrow that soft bell for thee shall 
sound, 
And thou repose beneath the whisper- 
ing tree. 
One tribute more to this submissive 
ground; — 
Prison thy soul from malice, bar out pride. 
Nor these pale flowers nor this still 
field deride : 

Rather to those ascents of being turn, 
Where a ne'er-setting sun illumes the 
year 
Eternal, and the incessant watch-fires 
burn 
Of unspent holiness and goodness 
clear, — 
Forget man's littleness, deserve the best, 
God's mercy in thy thought and life 
confest. 



JULIA WARD HOWE. 

[U. S. A.] 

FROM "A TRIBUTE TO A SERVANT." 

Not often to the parting soul 
Does Life in dreary grimness show ; 
Earth's captive, leaving j)iison-walls. 
Beholds them touched with sunset glow. 

And she forgot her sleepless nights. 
Her weary tasks of foot and hand. 
And, soothed with thoughts of jileasant- 

ness, 
Lay floating towards the silent land. 

The talk of comfortable hours. 
The merry dancing tunes 1 played, 
Gay banquets with the children shared. 
And summer days in greenwood shade, — 

They lay far scattered in the past, 
Through the dim vista of disease ; 
But when I spake, and held her hand, 
The parting cloud showed things like 
these. 



SONGS OF THREE CENTUEIES. 



236 

I questioned not her peace with God, 
Nor pried into her guiltless mind, 
Like those unskilful surgeon-priests 
Who rack the soul with probings blind. 

For I 've seen men who meant not ill 
Compelling doctrine out of Death, 
With Hell and Heaven acutely poised 
Upon the turning of a breath ; 

While agonizing judgments hung 
Ev'n on the Saviour's helpful name ; 
As mild Madonna's form, of old, 
A hideous torture-tool became. 

I could but say, with faltering voice 
And eyes that glanced aside to weep, 
*' Be strong in faith and hope, my child ; 
He giveth his beloved sleep. 

" Andthough thou walk the shadowy vale 
Whose end we know not, He will aid ; 
His rod and staff shall stay thy steps." 
"I know it well, "she smiled and said. 

She knew it well, and knew yet more 
My deepest hope, though unexprest. 
The hope that God's appointed *ileep 
But heightens ravishment with rest. 

My children, living flowers, shall come 
And strew with seed this grave of thine, 
And bid the blushing growths of Spring 
Thy dreary painted cross entwine. 

Thus Faith, cast out of barren creeds, 
Sliall rest in emblems of her own ; 
Beauty still springing from Decay, 
The cross-wood budding to the crown. 



BATTLE HYMN OF THE REPUBLIC. 

Mine eyes have seen the glory of the 

coming of the Lord : 
He is trampling out the vintage where 

the grapes of wrath are stored ; 
He hath loosed the fateful lightning of 

his terrible swift sword ; 

His truth is marching on. 

I have seen him in the watch-fires of a 
hundred circling camps ; 

They have builde<l him an altar in the 
evening dews and damps j 



I can read his righteous sentence by the 
dim and Haring lamps. 

His day is marching on. 

I have read a fiery gospel, writ in bur- 
nished rows of steel : 

"As ye deal with my contemners, so 
with you my grace shall deal ; 

Let the Hero, born of woman, crush the 
serpent with his heel. 

Since God is marching on." 

He has sounded forth the trumpet that 

shall never call retreat ; 
He is sifting out the hearts of men before 

his judgment-seat : 
0, be swift, my soul, to answer him ! be 

jubilant, my feet! 

Our God is marching on. 

In the beauty of the lilies Christ was 
born across the sea. 

With a glory in his bosom that trans- 
figures you and me : 

As he died to make men holy, let us die 
to make men free. 

While God is marching on. 



H. D. THOREAU. 

[U. S. A.] 

INSPIRATION. 

If with light head erect I sing. 
Though all the Muses lend their force, 
From my poor love of anything. 
The verse is weak and shallow as its 



But if with bended neck I grope, 
Listening behind me for my wit, 
With faith superior to hope. 
More anxious to keep back than for- 
ward it ; 

Making my soul accomplice there 
Unto the flame my heart hath lit. 
Then will the verse forever wear, — 
Time cannot bend the line which God 
has writ. 

I hearing get, who had but ears, 
And sight, who had but eyes before ; 



ELIZABETH LLOYD HOWELL. — C. F. ALEXANDER. 



237 



I moments live, who lived but years, 
And truth discern, who knew but learn- 
ing's lore. 

Now chiefly is my natal hour. 
And only now my prime of life, 
Of manhood's strength it is the flower, 
'T is peace's end, and war's beginning 
strife. 

It comes in summer's broadest noon, 
By a gray wall, or some chance place, 
Unseasoning time, insulting June, 
And vexing day with its presuming face. 

I will not doubt the love untold 
Which not my worth nor want hath 

bought. 
Which wooed me young, and wooed me 

old. 
And to this evening hath me brought. 



ELIZABETH LLOYD HOWELL. 

[U. S. A.] 

MILTON'S PRAYER IN BLINDNESS. 

I AM old and blind ! 
Men point at me as smitten by God's 

frown ; 
Afflicted and deserted of my kind ; 

Yet I am not cast down. 

I am weak, yet strong ; 
T murmur not tliat 1 no longer see ; 
Poor, old, and helpless, I the more 
belong, 

Father supreme ! to thee. 

merciful One ! 
When men are farthest, then thou art 

most near ; 
When friends pass by me, and my weak- 
ness shun. 
Thy chariot I hear. 

Thy glorious face 
Is leaning toward me ; and its holy 

light 
Shines in upon my lonely dwelling- 
place, — 
And there is no more night. 



On my bended knee 
I recognize thy purpose clearly shown : 
My vision thou hast dimmed, that I 
may see 

Thyself, — thyself alone. 

I have naught to fear ; 
This darkness is the shadow of thy wing; 
Beneath it I am almost sacred ; here 

Can come no evil thing. 

0, I seem to stand 
Trembling, where foot of mortal ne'er 

hath been. 
Wrapped in the radiance of thy sinless 
land, 
Which eye hath never seen ! 

Visions come and go : 
Shapes of resplendent beauty round me 

throng ; 
From angel lips I seem to hear the flow 

01' soft and holy song. 

It is nothing now. 
When heaven is opening on my sight- 
less eyes ? — 
When airs from paradise refresh my 
brow. 
The earth in darkness lies. 

In a purer clime 
My being fills with rapture, — waves of 

thought 
Roll in upon my spirit, — strains sublime 

Break over me unsought. 

Give me my lyre ! 
I feel the stirrings of a gift divine : 
Within my bosom glows unearthly fire, 

Lit by no skill of mine. 



C. F. ALEXANDER. 



THE BURIAL OF MOSES. 

By Nebo's lonely mountain 

On this side Jordan's wave. 

In a vale in the land of iloab 

There lies a lonely grave. 

And no man knows that sepulchre, 

And no man saw it e'er, 

For the angels of God upturned the sod, 

And laid the dead man there. 



238 



SONGS OF THREE CEXTUrJES. 



That was the grandest funeral 

That ever passed on earth ; 

But no man heard the trampling, 

Or saw the train go forth : 

Noiselessly as the daylight 

Comes back when night is done, 

And the crimson streak on ocean's cheek 

Grows into the great sun. 

Noiselessly as the spring-time 

Her crown of verdure weaves, 

And all the trees on all the hills 

()|ien their tliousand leaves ; 

So without sound of music 

Or voice of them that wept, 

Silently down from the mountain's crown 

The great procession swept. 

Perchance the bald old eagle 

On gray Beth-Peor's height, 

Out of his lonely eyrie 

Looked on the wondrous sight ; 

Perchance the lion, stalking. 

Still shuns that hallowed spot, 

For beast and bird have seen and heard 

That which man knoweth not. 

But when the warrior dieth, 

His comrades in the war, 

With arms reversed and muffled drum, 

Follow his funeral car ; 

Thej^ show the banners taken, 

They tell his battles won. 

And after him lead liis masterless steed. 

While peals the minute-gun. 

Amid the noblest of the land, 

We lay the sage to rest. 

And give the bard an honored place 

With costly marble drest. 

In the great minster transept 

Where lights like glories fall. 

And the organ rings and the sweet choir 

sings 
Along the emblazoned wall. 



This was the truest warrior 

That ever buckled sword. 

This the most gifted poet 

That ever breathed a word ; 

And never earth's philosopher 

Traced with his golden pen. 

On the deathless page, truths half so 

sage 
As he wrote down for men. 



And had he not high honor, — 

The hillside for a pall 

To lie in state while angels wait 

With stars lor tapers tall. 

And the dark rock-pines like tossing 

plumes 
Over his bier to wave. 
And God's own hand, in that lonely 

land. 
To lay him in the grave ? 

In that strange gi'ave without a name 

Whence his uncoltined clay 

Shall break again, wondrous thought ! 

Before the judgment-day. 

And stand with glory wrapt around 

On the hills he never trod. 

And sjjeak of the strife that won our life 

With the Incarnate Son of God. 

lonely gi'ave in Moab's land ! 

dark Beth-Peor's hill ! 

Speak to these curious hearts of ours, 

And teach them to be still. 

God hath his mysteries of grace, 

Ways tiiat we cannot tell ; 

He hides them deej), like the hidden 

sleep 
Of him he loved so well. 



E. H. SEARS. 

[U. S. A.l 

CHRISTMAS HYMN. 

Calm on the listening ear of night 
Come Heaven's melodious strains. 

Where wild Judrea stretches far 
Her silver-mantled plains ! 

Celestial choirs, from courts above, 

Shed sacred glories there ; 
And angels, with their sparkling lyres. 

Make music on the air. 

The answ^ering hills of Palestine 
Send back the glad reply ; 

And greet, from all their holy heights. 
The dayspring from on high. 

On the blue depths of Galilee 
There comes a holier calm, 

And Sharon waves, in solemn praise. 
Her silent groves of palm. 



THEODORE PARKER. — FREDERIC WILLIAM FABER. 



23i 



" Glory to God ! " the sounding skies 
Loud with their anthems ring ; 

Peace to tlie earth, good-will to men, 
From heaven's Etenial King ! 

Light on thy hills, Jerusalem ! 

The Saviour now is born ! 
And bright on Bethlehem's joyous plains 

Breaks the first Christmas moru. 



THEODORE PAEKEE. 

[U. S. A., l8l2- i860.] 

THE WAY, THE TRUTH, AND THE LIFE. 

THOU great Friend to all the sons of 
men, 
Who once appeared in humblest guise 
below, 
Sin to rebuke, to break the captive's chain, 
And call thy brethren forth from want 
and woe, — 

We look to thee ! thy truth is still the 
Light 
Which guides the nations, groping on 
their way. 
Stumbling and fallingindisastrousnight. 
Yet hoping ever for the perfect day. 

Yes ; thou art still the Life, thou art the 
Way 
The holiest know; Light, Life, the 
Way of heaven ! 
And they who dearest hope and deepest 
pray 
Toil by the Light, Life, Way, which 
thou hast given. 



FREDERIC WILLIAM FABER. 
[181S-1863.] 

THE WILL OF GOD. 

I WORSHIP thee, sweet Will of God ! 

And all thy ways adore. 
And every day I live I seem 

To love thee more and more. 

Wlien obstacles and trials seem 
Like prisou-walls to be, 



I do the little I can do. 
And leave the rest to thee. 

I have no cares, blessed Will ! 

For all my cares are thine ; 
I live in triumph. Lord ! for thou 

Hast made thy triumphs mine. 

And when it seems no chance or change 

From grief can set me free, 
Hope finds its strength in helplessness, 

And gayly waits on thee. 

Man's weakness waiting upon God 

Its end can never miss, 
For men on earth no work can do 

More angel-like than this. 

He always wins who sides with God, 

To him no chance is lost ; 
God's will is sweetest to him when 

It triumphs at his cost. 

Ill that he blesses is our good, 

And unblest good is ill ; 
And all is right that seems most wrong, 

If it be his sweet Will ! 



THE RIGHT MUST WIN. 

0, IT is hard to work for God, 

To rise and take his part 
Upon this battle-field of earth. 

And not sometimes lose heart ! 

He hides himself so wondrously. 
As though there were no God ; 

He is least seen when all the powers 
Of ill are most abroad. 

Or he deserts us at the hour 

The fight is all but lost ; 
And seems to leave us to ourselves 

Just when we need him most. 

Ill masters good, good seems to change 

To ill with greatest ease ; 
And, worst of all, the good with good 

Is at cross-purposes. 

Ah ! God is other than we think ; 

His ways are far above. 
Far beyond reason's height, and reached 

Only by childlike love. 



240 



SOXGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 



"Workman of Cxod ! 0, lose not heart, 
But learn what God is like ; 

And in the darkest battle-field 
Thou shalt know where to strike. 

Thrice blest is he to wliom is given 

The instinct that can tell 
That God is on the field when he 

Is most invisible. 

Blest, too, is he wlio can divine 

Where real right doth lie, 
And dares to take the side that seems 

Wrong to man's blindfold eye. 

For right is right, since God is God ; 

And riglit tlie day must win ; 
To doubt would be disloyalty, 

To falter would be sin ! 



DAVID A.WASSOK 

[U. S. A.] 

SEEN AND UNSEEN. 

The wind ahead, the billows high, 
A whited wave, but sable sk}'. 
And many a league of tossing sea. 
Between the hearts 1 love and me. 



The wind ahead : day after day 
These weary words the sailors say ; 
To weeks the days are lengthened now, — 
Still mounts the surge to meet our prow. 

Through longing day and lingering night 
I still accuse Time's lagging flight. 
Or gaze out o'er the envious sea. 
That keeps the hearts I love from me. 

Yet, ah, how shallow is all grief ! 
How instant is the deep relief! 
And what a hypocrite am I, 
To feign forlorn, to 'plain and sigh ! 

The wind ahead ? The wind is free ! 
Forevermore it favoreth me, — 
To shores of God still blowing fair. 
O'er seas of God my bark doth bear. 

The surging brine /do not sail. 
This blast adverse is not my gale ; 



'T is here I only seem to be. 
But really sail another sea, — 

Another sea, pure sky its Avaves, 
Whose beauty hides no heaving graves, — 
A sea all haven, whereupon 
No ha[)less bark to wreck hath gone. 

The winds that o'er my ocean run. 

Reach through all heavens beyond the 
sun ; 

Through life and death, through fate, 
through time, 

Grand breaths of God they sweep sub- 
lime. 

Eternal trades, they cannot veer. 
And blowing, teach us how to steer; 
And well for him whose joy, whose care, 
Is but to keep before them fair. 

0, thou God's mariner, heart of mine, 
Spread canvas to the airs divine ! 
Spread sail ! and let thy Fortune be 
Forgotten in thy Destiny ! 

For Destiny pursues us well, 

By sea, by land, through heaven or hell ; 

It suffers Death alone to die. 

Bids life all change and chance defy. 

Would earth's dark ocean suck theedoAATi ? 
Earth's ocean thou, Life, shalt drown, 
Shalt flood it with thy finer wave. 
And, sepulchred, entomb thy grave ! 

Life loveth life and good : then trust 
What most the spirit would, it must ; 
Deep wishes, in the heart that be, 
Are blossoms of necessity. 

A tln-ead of Law runs tlirough thy prayer, 
Stronger than iron cables are ; 
And Love and Longing toward her goal, 
Are pilots sweet to guide the soul. 

So Life must live, and Soul must sail. 
And Unseen over Seen prevail. 
And all God's argosies come to shore, 
Let ocean smile, or rage and roar. 

And so, mid storm or calm, my bark 
With snowy wake still nears her mark ; 
Cheerly the trades of being blow. 
And sweeping down the wind I go. 



EICHAED CHEXEVIX TREXCH. 



241 



ALL'S WELL. 

Sweet- voicitD Hope, thy fine discourse 

Foretold not half life's good to me : 
Thy painter, Fancy, hath not force 
To sliow how sweet it is to Be ! 

Thy witching dream 

And pictured scheme 
To match the fact still want the power ; 

Thy promise brave 

From birth to grave 
Life's boon may beggar in an hour. 

Ask and receive, — 't is sweetly said; 
Yet what to ])lead for know 1 not ; 
For Wish is worsted, Hope o'ersped, 
And aye to thanks returns my thought. 

If I would pray, 

I 've naught to say 
But this, that God may be God still ; 

For Him to live 

Is still to give. 
And sweeter than my wish His will. 

wealth of life, bej'ond all bound ! 
Eternity each moment given ! 

"What plummet may the Present sound? 
Who promises a future heaven ? 

Or glad, or grieved. 

Oppressed, relieved, 
In blackest night, or brightest day, 

Still pours the flood 

Of golden good. 
And more than heart-full fills me aye. 

My wealth is common ; I possess 

No petty province, but the whole ; 
Wliat 's mine alone is mine far less 
Than treasure shared by every soul. 
Talk not of store, 
Millions or more, — 
Of values which the purse may hold, — 
But this divine ! 
I own the mine 
Whose grains outweigh a planet's gold. 

1 have a stake in every star, 

In every beam that fills the day ; 
All hearts of men my coffers are. 
My ores arterial tides convey ; 
The fields, the skies, 
And sweet replies 
Of thought to thought are my gold dust, — 
The oaks, the brooks. 
And speaking looks 
Of lovers' faith and friendship's trust. 
16 



Life's 3'oungest tides joy-brimming flow 

For him who lives above all years, 
Who all-immortal makes the Now, 
And is not ta'en in Time's arrears: 

His life 's a hymn 

The seraphim 
Might hark to hear or help to sing. 

And to his soul 

The boundless whole 
Its bounty all doth daily bring. 

"All mine is thine," the sky-soul saith : 
"The wealth I am, must thou become : 
Richer and richer, breath by breath, — . 
Immortal gain, immortal room !" 

And since all his 

Mine also is, 
Life's gift outruns my fancies far, 

And drowns the dream 

In larger stream, 
As morning drinks the morning star. 



ROYALTY. 

That regal soul I reverence, in whose 

eyes 
Suffices not all worth the city knows 
To pay that debt which his own heart 

he owes ; 
For less than level to his bosom rise 
The low crowd's heaven and stars : above 

their skies 
Pvunneth the road his daily feet have 

ptressed ; 
A loftier heaven he beareth in his breast. 
And o'er the summits of aciiieving hies 
With never a thought of merit or of meed ; 
Choosing divinest labors through a pride 
Of soul, that holdeth appetite to feed 
Ever on angel-herbage, naught beside ; 
Nor praises more himself for hero-deed 
Than stones for weight, or open seas for 

tide. 



RICHARD CHEXEVIX TREXCH. 

THE KINGDOM OF GOD. 

I SAY to thee, do thou repeat 

To the first man thou niayest meet, 

In lane, highway, or open street, — 

That he, and we, and all men move 

Under a canopy of Love, 

As broad as the blue sky above : 



242 



SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 



That doubt and trouble, fear and pain, 
Aiul anguish, all are sorrows vain ; 
That death itself shall not remain : 

That weary deserts we may tread, 
A di-eary labyrinth may thread. 
Through dark ways underground be led ; 

Yet, if we will our Guide obey, 

The dreariest path, the darkest way, 

Shall issue out in heavenly day. 

And we, on divers shores now cast, 
S-hall meet, our perilous voyage past, 
All in our Father's home at last. 

And ere thou leave them, say thou this. 
Yet one word more : They only miss 
The winning of that final bliss 

Who will not count it trae that Love, 
Blessing, not cursing, rules above. 
And that in it we live and move. 

And one thing further make him know. 
That to believe these things are so. 
This firm faith never to forego, — 

Despite of all which seems at strife 
With blessing, and with curses rife, — 
That this is blessing, this is life. 



ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH. 

[1819-1861.] 

THE NEW SINAI. 

Lo, here is God, and there is God ! 

Believe it not, man ! 
In .such vain sort to this and that 

The ancient heathen ran ; 
Though old Religion shake her head, 

And say, in bitter grief. 
The day behold, at first foretold. 

Of atheist unbelief: 
Take better part, with manly heart, 

Thine adult spirit can ; 
Receive it not, believe it not, 

Believe it not, Man ! 

As men at dead of night awaked 
With cries, "The king is here," 

Rush forth and greet whome'er they meet. 
Whoe'er shall first appear ; 



And still repeat, to all the street, 
"'T is he, — the king is here" ; 

The long procession moveth on, 
Each nobler form they see. 

With changeful suit they still salute, 
And cry, "'T is he ! 't is he !" 

So, even so, when men were young, 

And earth and heaven was new, 
And His immediate presence he 

From human hearts withdrew. 
The soul perplexed and daily vexed 

With .sensuous False and True, 
Amazed, bereaved, no less believed, 

And fain would see Him too. 
"He is!" the prophet-tongues pro- 
claimed ; 

In joy and hasty fear, 
"He is !" aloud replied the crowd, 

"Is, here, and here, and here." 

"He is ! They are !" in distance seen 

On yon Olympus high. 
In those Avernian woods abide, 

And walk this azure sky : 
"They are ! They are !" to every show 

Its eyes the baby turned, 
And blazes sacrificial, tall. 

On thousand altars burned : 
"They are! They are!" — On Sinai's 
top 

Far seen the lightning's shone, 
The thunder broke, a trumpet spoke. 

And God said, "I am One." 

God spake it out, "T, God, am One" ; 

The unheeding ages ran. 
And baby thoughts again, again, 

Have dogged the growing man : 
And as of old from Sinai's top 

God said that God is One, 
By Science strict so speaks he now 

'To tell us. There is None ! 
Earth goes by chemic forces ; Heaven 's 

A Mecanique Celeste ! 
And heart and mind of human kind 

A watch-work as the rest ! 

Is this a Voice, as was the Voice 

Whose speaking told abroad. 
When thunder pealed, and mountain 
reeled, 

The ancient truth of God ? 
Ah, not the Voice ; 't is but the cloud, 

The outer darkness dense. 
Where image none, nor e'er was seen 

Similitude of sense. 



ARTHUE HUGH CLOUGH. 



243 



'T is Ijut the cloudy darkness dense, 
That wrapt the Mount around ; 

While in amaze the people stays, 
To hear the Coming Sound. 

Some chosen prophet-soul the while 

Shall dare, sublimely meek, 
"Within the shroud of blackest cloud 

The Deity to seek : 
Mid atheistic systems dark. 

And darker hearts' despair, 
That soul has heard perchance his word, 

And on the duskj' air. 
His skirts, as passed He by, to see 

Hath strained on their behalf. 
Who on the plain, with dance amain, 

Adore the Golden Calf. 

'T is but the cloudy darkness dense ; 

Though blank the tale it tells. 
No God, no Truth ! yet He, in sooth, 

Is there, — within it dwells ; 
Withm the sce])tic darkness deep 

He dwells that none may see. 
Till idol forms and idol thoughts 

Have passed and ceased to be : 
No God, no Truth ! ah though, in sooth. 

So stand the doctrine's half ; 
On Egypt's track return not back. 

Nor own the Golden Calf. 

Take better part, with manlier heart, 

Thine adult spirit can : 
No God, no Truth, receive it ne'er — 

Believe it ne'er — Man ! 
But tuni not then to seek again 

What first the ill began ; 
No God, it saith ; ah, wait in faith 

God's self-completing plan ; 
Receive it not, but leave it not. 

And wait it out, man ! 

The Man that went the cloud within 

Is gone and vanished quite ; 
•' He Cometh not," the people cries, 

"Nor bringeth God to sight" : 
"Lo these thy gods, that safety give. 

Adore and keep the feast !" 
Deluding and deluded cries 

The Prophet's brother- Priest : 
And Israel all bows down to fall 

Before the gilded beast. 

Devout, indeed ! that priestly creed, 

Man, reject as sin ! 
The clouded" hill attend thou still. 

And him that went within. 



He yet shall bring some worthy thing 

For waiting souls to see ; 
Some sacred word that he hath heard 

Their light and life shall be ; 
Some lofty part, than which the heart 

Adopt no nobler can. 
Thou shalt receive, thou shalt believe. 

And thou shalt do, Man ! 



FROM THE "BOTHIE OF TOBER-NA- 
VUOLICH." 

Where does Circumstance end, and Prov- 
idence, where begins it ? 

What are we to resist, and what are we 
to be friends with ? 

If there is battle 't is battle by night; I 
stand in the darkness. 

Here in the midst of men, Ionian and 
Dorian on both sides. 

Signal and password known ; which is 
friend, which is foeman ? 

Is it a friend ? I doubt, though he speak 
with the voice of a brother. 

that the armies indeed were arrayed ! 
O joy of the onset ! 

Sound, thou trumpet of God, come forth 
Great Cause, and array us ! 

King and leader appear, thy soldiers an- 
swering seek thee. 

Would that the armies indeed were 
arrayed. where is the battle ! 

Neither battle I see, nor arraying, nor 
King in Israel, 

Only infinite jumble and mess and dis- 
location. 

Backed by a solemn appeal, "For God's 
sake do not stir there ! " 



THE STREAM OF LIFE. 

STREAM descending to the sea. 
Thy mossy banks between, 

The flovv'rets blow, the grasses grow, 
The leafy trees are green. 

In garden plots the children play, 
The fields the laborers till, 

The houses stand on either hand, 
And thou descendest still. 

life descending into death. 
Our waking eyes behold, 



244 



SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 



Parent and friend tliy lapse attend, 
Companions young and old. 

Strong purposes our minds possess, 

Our hearts affections till, 
We toil and earn, we seek and learn, 

And thou descendest still. 

end to which our currents tend. 

Inevitable sea, 
To which we ttow, what do we know. 

What shall we guess of thee ? 

A roar we hear upon thy shore, 

As we onr course fulfil ; 
Scarce we divine a sun will shine 

And be above us still. 



QUA CTIRSUM VENTUS. 

As ships becalmed at eve, that lay 
With canvas drooping, side by side, 

Two towers of sail at dawn of day 

Are scarce, long leagues apart, de- 
scried ; 

When fell the night, upsprung the breeze. 
And all the darkling hours they plied, 

Nor dreamt but each the selfsame seas 
By each was cleaving, side by side : 

E'en so, — but why the tale reveal 
Of those whom, year by year unchanged, 

Brief absence joined anew to feel, 

Astounded, soul from soul estranged ? 

At dead of night their sails were filled, 
And onward each rejoicing steered : 

Ah, neither blame, for neither willed. 
Or wist, what first with dawn appeared ! 

To veer, how vain ! On, onward strain. 
Brave barks ! Inlight, in darkness too. 

Through winds and tides one compass 
guides, — 
To that, and your own selves, be true. 

But blithe breeze, and great seas, 
Though ne'er, that earliest parting past, 

On your wide plain they join again. 
Together lead them home at last ! 

One port, methought, alike they sought, 
One purpose hold where'er they fare, — 

bounding breeze, rushing seas. 
At last, at last, unite them there 



SAMUEL LONGFELLOW. 

[U. S. A.] 



THE GOLDEN SUNSET. 

The golden sea its mirror spreads 

Beneath the golden skies. 
And but a narrow strip between 

Of land and shadow lies. 

The cloud-like rocks, the rock-like clouds, 

Dissolved in glory float, • 
And, midway of the radiant flood, 

Hangs silently the boat. 

The sea is but another sky, 

The sky a sea as well, 
And which is earth, and which the heav- 
ens. 

The e^'e can scarcely tell. 

So when for us life's evening hour 

Soft passing shall descend. 
May glory born of earth and heaven, 

The earth and heavens blend ; 

Flooded with peace the spirit float, 

With silent rapture glow. 
Till where earth ends and heaven begins 

The soul shall scarcely know. 



UNKNOAVN. 

QUIET FROM GOD. 

Quiet from God ! It cometh not to still 

The vast and high aspirings of the soul, 

The deep emotions which the spiiit till. 

And speed its purpose onward to the 

goal; 

It dims not youth's bright eye. 

Bends not joy's lofty brow. 
No guiltless ecstasy 

Need in its presence bow. 

It comes not in a sullen form, to ]ilace 
Life's greatest good in an ingloiious 
rest ; 
Through a dull, beaten track its way to 
trace, 
And to lethargic slumber lull the breast ; 
Action may be its sphere, 

Mountain paths, boundless fields, 
O'er billows its career : 

This is the power it yields. 



ELIZA SCUDDEK. — SARAH F. ADAMS, 



245 



To sojourn in the world, and yet apart ; 
To dwell with God, yet still with man 
to feel ; 
To bear about forever in the heart 

The gladness which His spirit doth 
reveal ; 
Not to deem evil gone 

From every earthly scene ; 
To see the storm come on, 
But feel His shield between. 

It giveth not a strength to human kind. 
To leave ail sullering powerless at its 
feet, 
But keeps within the temjde of the mind 
A golden altar, and a mercy-seat ; 
A spiritual ark, 

Bearing the peace of God 
Above the waters dark. 
And o'er the desert's sod. 

How beautiful within our souls to keep 
This treasure, the All-Merciful hath 
given ; 
To feel, when we awake, and when we 
sleep. 
Its incense round us, like a breeze from 
heaven ! 
Quiet at hearth and home, 

Where the heart's joys begin ; 
Quiet where'er we roam, 
Quiet around, within. 

"Who shall make trouble? — not the evil 
minds 
Which like a shadow o'er creation lower, 
The spirit peace hath so attuned, finds 
There feelings tliat may own the 
Calmer's power ; 
What may she not confer, 

E'en where she must condemn ? 
They take not peace from lier, 
She may speak peace to them ! 



ELIZA SCUDDER. 

[U. S. A.] 

THE LOVE OF GOD. 

Thou Grace Divine, encircling all, 
A soundless, shoreless sea ! 

AVherein at last our souls must fall, 
Love of God most free ! 



When over dizzy heights we go, 
One soft hand blinds our eyes, 

The other leads us, safe and slow, 
Love of God most wise ! 

And though we turn us from thy face, 
And wander wide and long. 

Thou hold'st us still in thine embrace, 
Love of God most strong ! 

The saddened heart, the restless soul, 
The toil-worn frame and mind, 

Alike confess thy sweet control, 
Love of God most kind ! 



But not alone thy care we claim, 
Our wayward steps to win ; 

We know thee by a dearer name, 
Love of God within ! 



And filled and quickened by thy breath. 
Our souls are strong and free 

To rise o'er sin and fear and death, 
Love of God, to thee ! 



SAEAH F. ADAMS. 

NEARER, MY GOD, TO THEE. 

Keareh, my God, to thee, 

Nearer to thee ! 
E'en though it be a cross 

That raiseth me ; 
Still all my song shall be, 
Nearer, my God, to thee, 

Nearer to thee ! 

Though like the wanderer. 
The sun gone down. 

Darkness be over me, 
My rest a stone ; 

Yet in my dreams I 'd be 

Nearer, my God, to thee, 
Nearer to thee ! 

There let the way appear 
Steps unto Heaven ; 

All that thou send'st to me 
In mei'cy given ; 

Angels to beckon me 

Nearer, my God, to thee, 
Nearer to thee ! 



246 SONGS OF THREE CENTUKIES. 


Then with my waking thoughts 


And if some things I do not ask 


Bright with thy praise, 


In my cup of blessing be. 


Out of my stony griefs 


I would liave my spirit filled the more 


Bethel I '11 raise ; 


With grateful love to thee ; 


So by my woes to be 


And careful, less to serve thee much, 


Nearer, my God, to thee, 


Than to please thee perfectly. 


Nearer to thee ! 




Or if on joyful wing 

Cleaving the sky, 
Sun, moon, and stars forgot. 

Upwards I Hy, 
Still all my song shall be, 
Nearer, my God, to thee. 


There are briers besetting every path. 
Which call for patient care ; 

There is a cross in every lot, 

And an earnest need "for prayer ; 


But a lowly heart that leans oil thee 
Is happy anywhere. 


Nearer to thee ! 






In a service which thy love appoints. 




There are no bonds for me ; 
For my secret heart is taught ' ' the truth" 


* 




That makes thy children " free " ; 


ANNA L. WARING. 


And a life of self-renouncing love 




Is a life of liberty. 


MY TIMES ARE IN' THV HAND. 
Father, I know that all my life 






Is portioned out for me, 




And the changes that will surely come, 


JAMES FREEMAN CLARKE. 


I do not fear to see ; 




But I ask thee for a present mind 


[U. S. A.] 


Intent on pleasing thee. 






CANA. 


I ask thee for a thoughtful love, 




Through constant watching wise, 


Dear Friend ! whose presence in the 


To meet the glad with joyful smiles, 


house. 


And to wipe the weeping eyes ; 


Whose gi-acious word benign. 


And a heart at leisure from itself. 


Could once, at Cana's wedding feast, 


To soothe and sympathize. 


Change water into wine ; 


I would not ha-v-e the restless will 


Come, visit us ! and when dull work 


That hurries to and fro. 
Seeking for some great thing to do, 


Grows wear}% line on line. 
Revive our souls, and let us see 


Or secret thing to know ; 
I would be treated as a child. 


Life's water turned to wine. 


And guided where I go. 


Gay mirth shall deepen into joy. 


Wherever in the world I am. 


Earth's hopes grow half divine. 


In whatsoe'er estate. 


When Jesus visits us, to make 


I have a fellowship with hearts 


Life's water glow as wine. 


To keep and cultivate ; 




And a work of lowly love to do. 


The social talk, the evening fire. 


For the Lord on whom I wait. 


The homely household shrine, 




Grow bright with angel visits, when 


So I ask thee for the daily strength, 


The Lord pours out the wine. 


To none that ask denied. 




And a mind to blend with outward life. 


For when self-seeking turns to love. 


"While keeping at thy side, 


Not knowing mine nor thine, 


Content to fill a little space, 


The miracle again is wrought. 


If thou be glorified. 


And water turned to wine. 



HORATIUS BONAR. — W. ALEXANDER. 



247 



HORATIUS BONAR. 

THE INNER CALM. 

Calm me, my God, and keep me calm, 
While these hot breezes blow ; 

Be like the night-dew's cooling balm 
Upon earth's fevered brow. 

Calm me, my God, and keep me calm, 

Soft resting on thy breast ; 
Soothe me with holy hymn and psalm, 

And bid my spirit rest. 

Calm me, my God, and keep me calm ; 

Let thine outstretched wing 
Be like the shade of Elim's palm 

Beside her desert spring. 

Yes, keep me calm, though loud and 
rude 

The sounds my ear that greet, 
Calm in the closet's solitude. 

Calm in the bustling street ; 

Calm in the hour of buoyant health. 

Calm in my liour of pain. 
Calm in my poverty or wealth, 

Calm in my loss or gain ; 

Calm in the sufferance of wrong, 
Like Him who bore my shame, 

Calm mid the threatening, taunting 
throng. 
Who hate Thy holy name ; 

Calm when the great world's news with 
power 

My listening spirit stir ; 
Let not the tidings of the hour 

E'er find too fond an ear ; 

Calm as the ray of sun or star 

Which storms assail in vain. 
Moving unruffled through earth's war, 

The eternal calm to gain. 



THE MASTER'S TOUCH. 

In the still air the music lies unheard ; 
In the rough marble beauty hides 
unseen : 
To make the music and the beauty, 
needs 
The master's touch, the sculptor's 
chisel keen. 



Great Master, touch us with thy skilful 
hand ; 
Let not the music that is in us die ! 
Great Sculptor, hew and polish us ; nor 
let. 
Hidden and lost, thy form within us 
lie! 

Spare not the stroke ! do with us as 
thou wilt ! 
Let there be naught unfinished, broken, 
marred ; 
Complete thy purpose, that we may be- 
come 
Thy perfect image, thou our God and 
Lord ! 



W. ALEXANDER. 



UP ABOVE. 

Down below, the wild November whist- 
ling 
Through the beech's dome of burning red. 
And the Autumn sprinkling penitential 
Dust and ashes on the chestnut's head. 



Down below, a pall of airy purple 
Darkly hanging from the mountain-side; 
And the sunset from his eyebrow staring 
O'er the long roll of the leaden tide. 

Up above, the tree with leaf unfading. 
By the everlasting river's brink ; 
And the sea of glass, beyond whose margin 
Never yet the sun was known to sink. 

Down below, the white wings of the sea- 
bird 

Dashed across the furrows, dark with 
mould, 

Flitting, like the memories of our child- 
hood, 

Through the trees, now waxen pale and 
old. 

Down below, imaginations quivering 
Through our human spirits like the wind; 
Thoughts that toss, like leaves about the 

woodland ; 
Hope, like sea-birds, flashed across the 

mind. 



248 



SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 



Up above, the host no man can number, 
In white robes, a palm in everj' hand, 
Each some work sublime forever working, 
In the spacious tracts of that great land. 

Up above, the thoughts that know not 

anguish ; 
Tender care, sweet love for us below ; 
Noble pitj', free from anxious terror ; 
Larger love, without a touch of woe. 

Down below, a sad, mysterious music 
Wailing through the woods and on the 

shore. 
Burdened with a grand majestic secret. 
That keeps sweeping from us evermore. 

Up above, a music that entwineth 
With eternal threads of golden sound. 
The great poem of this strange existence, 
All whose wondrous meaning hath been 
found. 



HARRIET BEECHER STOWE. 

[U. S. A.] 

THE OTHER WORLD. 

It lies around us like a cloud, — 

A world we do not see ; 
Yet the sweet closing of an e}'e 

May bring us there to be. 

Its gentle breezes fan our cheek ; 

Amid our worldly cares 
'Its gentle voices whisper love, 

And mingle with our prayers. 

Sweet hearts around us throb and beat, 
Sweet helping hands are stirred, 

And palpitates the veil between 
With breathings almost lieard. 

The silence — awful, sweet, and calm — 
They have no power to break ; 

For mortal words are not for them 
To utter or partake. 

So thin, so soft, so sweet they glide, 
So near to press they seem, — ■ 

They seem to lull us to our rest, 
And melt into our dream. 



And in the hush of rest they bring 

'T is easy now to see 
How lovely and how sweet a pass 

The hour of death may be. 

To close the eye, and close the ear, 
Wrappeil in a trance of bliss, 

And gently dream in loving arms 
To swoon to that — Irom this. 

Scarce knowing if we wake or sleep, 
Scarce asking where we are. 

To feel all evil sink away, 
AH sorrow aud all care. 

Sweet souls around us ! watch us still, 

Press nearer to our side, 
Into our thoughts, into our prayers, 

With gentle helpings glide. 

Let death l)etween us be as naught, 
A drieil and vanished stream ; 

Your joy be the reality. 

Our suffering life the dream. 



MRS. LEWES (GEORGE ELIOT). 



O MAY I JOm THE CHOIR INVISIBLE I 

MAY I join the choir invisible 

Of those immortal dead who live again 

In minds made better by their presence; 

live 
In pulses stirred to generosity. 
In deeds of daring rectitude, in scorn 
Of miserable aims that end with self. 
In thoughts sublime that pierce the 

night like stars, 
And with their mild persistence urge 

men's minds 
To vaster issues. 

So to live is heaven : 
To make undying music in the world. 
Breathing a beauteous order, that con- 
trols 
With growing sway the growing life of 

man. 
So we inherit that sweet purity 
For which we struggled, failed, and 

agonized 
With widening retrospect that bred de- 
spair. 
Rebellious flesh that would not be sub- 
dued, 



CHARLES KIXGSLEY, 



249 



A vicious parent shaming still its child, 
Poor anxious penitence, is quick dis- 
solved ; 
Its discords quenched by meeting har- 
monies. 
Die in the large and charitable air. 
And all our rarer, better, truer self, 
That sobbed religiously in yearning song, 
That watched to ease the burden of the 

woild. 
Laboriously tracing what must be. 
And what may yet be better, — saw within 
A worthier image for the sanctuary. 
And shaped it forth before the multitude. 
Divinely human, raising worship so 
To higher reverence more mixed with 

love, — 
That better self shall live till human 

Time 
Shall fold its eyelids, and the human sky 
Be gathered like a scroll within the tomb, 
Unread forever. 

This is life to come, 
"Which martyred men have made more 

glorious 
For us, who strive to follow. 

ilay I reach 
That purest heaven, — be to other souls 
Tlie cup of strength in some gi-eat agony. 
Enkindle generous ardor, feed pure love. 
Beget the smiles that have no cruelty. 
Be the sweet presence of a good diffused, 
And in diffusion ever more intense ! 
So shall I join the choir invisible. 
Whose music is the gladness of the world. 



CHARLES KIXGSLEY. 

[1819-1S74.] 

THE THREE FISHERS. 

Three fishers went sailing out into the 
west. 
Out into the westasthe sun went down ; 
Each thought on the woman who loved 
him the best, j 

And the children stood watching them 1 
out of the town ; 
For men must work, and women must 

weep. 
And there 's little to earn, and many to 
keep, \ 

Though the harbor bar be moaning. 1 



Three wives sat up in the lighthouse 
tower. 
And they trimmed the lamps as the 
sun went down. 
They looked at the squall, and they 
looked at the shower. 
And the night rack came rolling up 
ragged and brown ! 
But men must work, and women must 

weep, 
Though storms be sudden, and wateis 
deep, 
And the harbor bar be moaning. 

Three corpses layout on the shining sands 
In the morning gleam as the tide went 
dowm. 
And the women are weeping and wring- 
ing their hanils 
For those who will never come back 
to the town ; 
For men must work, and women must 

weep, 
And the sooner it 's over, the sooner to 
sleep, — 
And good by to the bar and its 
moaning. 



THE SANDS OF DEE. 

"0 M.\RY, go and call the cattle home, 
And call the cattle home. 
And call the cattle home, 
Across the sands of Dee" ; 
The western wind was wild and dank wi' 
foam, 
And all alone went she. 

The western tide crept up along the sand, 
And o'er and o'er the sand, 
And round and round the sand. 
As far as eye could see. 
The rolling mist came down and hid the 
land, — 
And never home came she. 

" 0, is it weed, or fish, or floating hair, — 
A tress o' golden hair, 
A drowned maiden's hair 
Above the nets at sea ? 
"Was never salmon yet that shone so fair 
Among the stakes on Dee." 

They rowed her in across the rolling foam, 
The cruel crawling foam, 



250 



SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 



The cruel hungry foam, 
To her grave beside the sea : 
But still the boatmen hear her call the 
cattle home 
Across the sands of Dee ! 



A MYTH. 

A FLOATING, a floating 
Across the sleeping sea. 
All night I heard a singing bird 
Upon the topmast tree. 

"0, came you from the isles of Greece, 
Or from the banks of Seine, 
Or ott' some tree in forests free, 
"Which fringe the Western main ? " 

"I came not off the old world, — 
Nor yet from off the new, — 
But 1 am one of the birds of God 
"Which sing the whole night through." 

"0 sing and wake tlie dawning, 
O whistle for the wind ; 
The night is long, the current strong, 
My boat it lags behind." 

" The current sweeps the old world. 
The current sweeps the new ; 
The wind will blow, the dawn will glow 
Ere thou hast sailed them through. " 



DIXAH MULOCK CEAIK. 

COMING HOME. 

The lift is high and blue. 

And the new moon glints through 

The bonnie corn-stooks o' Strathairly ; 
Aly ship 's in Largo Bay, 
And I ken it weel, — the way 

Up the steep, steep brae of Strathairly. 

"When I sailed ower the sea, — 
A laddie bold and free, — 

The corn sprang green on Strathairly ; 
"When I come back again, 
'T is an auld man walks his lane, 

Slow and sad through the fields o' 
Strathairly. 



Of the shearers that I see, 

Ne'er a body kens me. 
Though I kent them a' at Strathairly ; 

And this tisher-wife 1 pass, 

Can she be the braw lass 
That I kissed at the back of Strathairly? 

0, the land 's fine, fine ! 

I could buy it a' for mine, 
My gowd 's yellow as the stooks o' 
Strathairly ; 

But 1 fain yon lad wad be. 

That sailed ower the salt sea, 
As the dawn rose gray on Strathairly. 



TOO LATE. 

Could ye come back to me, Douglas, 
Douglas, 

In the old likeness that I knew, 
I would be so faithful, so loving, Douglas, 

Douglas, Douglas, tender and true. 

Never a scornful word should grieve ye, 
I 'd smile on ye sweet as the angels 
do; — 

Sweet as your smile on me shone ever, 
Douglas, Douglas, tender and true. 

to call back the days that are not ! 
My eyes were blinded, your words were 

few: 
Do you know the truth now up in heaven, 
Douglas, Douglas, tender and true ? 

1 never was worthy of you, Douglas ; 
Not half worthy the like of you : 

Now all men beside seem to me like 
shadows, — 
I love you, Douglas, tender and true. 

Stretch out your hand to me, Douglas, 
Douglas, 
Dro]) forgiveness from heaven like dew ; 
As I lay my heart on your dead heart, 
Douglas, 
Douglas, Douglas, tender and true. 



OUTWARD BOUND. 

Oft upon the unknown deep. 

Where the unheard oceans sound, 

Where the unseen islands sleep, — 
• Outward bound. 



HAKRIET WIN' SLOW SEW ALL. 



251 



Following towards tlie silent west 
O'er the horizon's curved rim, 

On, to islands of the blest ; 
He with me and I with him, 
Outward bound. 

Nothing but a speck we seem 

In the waste of waters round; 
Floating, floating like a dream, 

Outward bound. 
But within that tiny speck 

Two brave hearts with one accord, 
Past all tunmlt, paiu, and wreck, 
Look up calm, and praise the Lord, 
Outward bound. 



ELIZABETH A. ALLEN. 

[U. S. A.] 

UNTIL DEATH. 

Make me no vows of constancy, dear 
friend. 
To love me, thougli I die, thy whole 
life long, 
And love no other till thy days shall 
end, — 
Nay, it were rash and wrong. 

If thou canst love another, be it so ; 

I would not reach out of my quiet grave 
To bind thy heart, if it should choose to 
go; — 
Love should not be a slave. 

My placid ghost, I trust, will walk serene 
In clearer light than gilds those earthly 
morns. 
Above the jealousies and envies keen 

Which sow this life with thorns. 

Thou wouldst not feel my shadowy caress, 
If, after death, ray soul should linger 
here; 
Men's hearts crave tangible, close ten- 
derness, 
Love's presence, warm and near. 

It would not make me sleep more peace- 
fully 
That thou wert wasting all thy life in 
woe 
For my poor sake ; what love thou hast 
for me. 
Bestow it ere I go ! 



Carve not upon a stone when I am dead 
The praises which remorseful mourners 
give 
To women's graves, — a tardy recom- 
pense, — 
But speak them while I live. 

Heap not the heavy marVjle on my head 
To shut away the sunshine and the dew ; 
Let small blooms gi-ow there, and let 
grasses wave, 
And rain -drops filter through. 

Thou wilt meet many fairer and more gay 
Than I ; but, trust me, thou canst never 
find 
One who will love and serve thee night 
and day 
With a more single mind. 

Forget me when I die ! The violets 

Above my rest will blossom just as blue. 
Nor miss thy tears; e'en Nature's self 
forgets ; — 
But while I live, be true ! 



HARRIET TMNSLOW SEWALL. 

[U. S. A.] 

WHY THUS LONGrNG? 

Why thus longing, thus forever sighing 
For the far off, unattained, and dim. 

While the beautiful, all round thee lying, 
Offers up its low perpetual hymn ! 

Wouldst thou listen to its gentle teaching 
All thy restless yearnings it would 
still. 
Leaf and flower and laden bee are preach- 
ing 
Thine own sphere, though humble, 
first to fill. 

Poor indeed thou must be, if around thee 
Thou no ray of light and joy canst 
throw, 
If no silken chord of love hath bound 
thee 
To some little world through weal 
and woe ; 

If no dear e^-es thy fond love can brighten. 
No fond voices answer to thine own, 



252 



SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 



If no brother's sorrow thou canst lighten 
By daily sympathy and gentle tone. 

Not by deeds that gain the world's ap- 
plauses, 
Not by works that win thee world 
renown, 
Not by martyrdom or vaunted crosses. 
Canst thou win and wear the immor- 
tal crown. 

Daily straggling, though unloved and 
lonely. 
Every day a rich reward will give ; 
Thou wilt find by hearty striving only. 
And truly loving, thou canst truly 
live. 



Dost thou revel in the rosy morning 

When all nature hails the Lord of light, 
And his smile, nor low nor lofty scorn- 
ing, 
Gladdens hall and hovel, vale and 
height ? 

Other hands may grasp the field and 
forest, 
Proud proprietors in pomp may shine. 
But with fervent love if thou adorest. 
Thou art wealthier, — all the world is 
thine. 

Yet if through earth's wide domains 
thou rovest. 
Sighing that they are not thine alone, 
Not those fair fields, but thyself thou 
lovest. 
And their beauty and thy wealth are 
gone. 



COVENTRY PATMORE. 



WOMAN. 

All powers of the sea and air, 

All interests of hill and plain, 
I so can sing, in seasons fair. 

That who liath felt may feel again : 
Nay, more ; the gracious muses bless 

At times my tongue, until I can 
With moving emphasis express 

The likeness of the perfect man : 
Elated oft with such free songs, 

I think with utterance free to raise 



That hymn for which the whole Avorld 
longs, — 

A worthy hymn in woman's praise ; 
The best half of creation's best. 

Its heart to feel, its eye to see, 
The crown and complex of the rest, 

Its aim and its epitome. 

Yet now it is my chosen task 

To sing her worth as maid and wife ; 
Aiul were such post to seek, I 'd ask 

To live her laureate all my life. 
On wings of love uplifted free, 

And by her gentleness made great, 
I W teach how noble man should be. 

To match with such a lovely mate ; 
Until (for who may hope too much 

From her whowieldsthepowersof love). 
Our lifted lives at last should touch 

That lofty goal to which they move ; 
Until we find, as darkness rolls 

Far off, and fleshly mists dissolve, 
That nuptial contrasts are the poles 

On which the heavenly spheres revolve. 



THE CHASE. 

She wearies with an ill unknown ; 

In sleep she sobs and seems to float, 
A water-lily, all alone 

Within a lonely castle-moat ; 
And as the full moon, spectral, lies 

Within the crescent's gleaming arms, 
The present shows her heedless eyes 

A future dim with vague alarms : 
She sees, and yet she scarcely sees ; 

For, life-in-iife not yet begun. 
Too many are life's mysteries 

For thought to fix t'ward any one. 

She 's told that maidens are by youths 

Extremely honored and desired ; 
Ami sighs, "If those sweet tales betrutlis, 

What bliss to be so much admired I" 
The suitors come ; she sees them grieve ; 

Her coldness fills them with despair: 
She 'd pity if she could believe ; 

She 's sorry that she cannot care. 

Who 's this that meets her on her way ? 

Comes he as enemy, or friend; 
Or both ? Her bosom seems to say 

He cannot pass, and there an end. 
Whom does he love? Does he confer 

His heart on worth that answers his ? 



LETITIA E. LANDOX. 



253 



Perhaps he 's come to worship her : 
She fears, she hopes, she thinks he is. 

Advancing stepless, quick, and still, 

As in the grass a serpent glides, 
He fascinates her fluttering will, 

Then tenifies with dreadful strides : 
At first, thei'e 's nothing to I'esist : 

He fights with all the forms of peace ; 
He conies about her like a mist, 

With subtle, swift, unseen increase ; 
And then, unlooked for, strikes amain 

Some sti-oke that frightens her to death ; 
And grows all harmlessuess again. 

Ere she can cry, or get her breath. 
At times she stops, and stands at bay ; 

But he, in all more strong than she, 
Subdues her with his i)ale dismay, 

Or more admired audacity. 

All people speak of him with praise : 

How wise his talk ; how sweet his tone ; 
What manly worship in his gaze ! 

It nearly makes her heart his own. 
With what an air he speaks her name : 

His manner always recollects 
Her sex : and still the woman's claim 

Is taught its scope by his respects. 
Her charms, perceived to prosper first 

In his beloved advertencies, 
When in her glass they are rehearsed, 

Prove his most powerful allies. 

Ah, whither shall a maiden flee. 

When a bold youth so swift pursues, 
And siege of tenderest courtesy. 

With hope perseverant, still renews ! 
Why Hy so fast ? Her flattered breast 

Thankshimwhofindsherfairandgood; 
She loves her fears ; veiled joys arrest 

The foolish terrors of her blood ; 
By secret, sweet degrees, her heart. 

Vanquished, takes warmth from his 
desire : 
She makes it more, with bashful art, 

And fuels love's late dreaded fire. 

The gallant credit he accords 

To all the signs of good in her, 
Eedeems itself; his praiseful words 

What they attribute .still confer. 
Her heart is thrice as rich in bliss. 

She 's three times gentler than before : 
He gains a right to call her his. 

Now she through him is so much more ! 
Ah, might he, when by doubts aggrieved, 

Behold his tokens next her breast, 



At all his words and sighs perceived 
Against its blithe upheaval pressed. 

But still she flies : should she be won. 
It must not be believed or thought 

She yields : she's chased to death, undone, 
Surprised, and violently caught. 



THE LOVER. 

He meets, by heavenly chance express. 

His destined wife ; some hidden hand 
Unveils to him that loveliness 

Which others cannot understand. 
No songs of love, no summer dreams 

Did e'er his longing fancy fire 
With vision like to this; she seems 

In all things better than desire. 
His merits in her presence grow. 

To match the promise in her eyes. 
And round her liappy footsteps blow 

The authentic airs of Paradise. 

The least is well, yet nothing' s light 

In all the lover does; for he 
Who pitches hope at such a height 

Will do all things with dignity. 
She is so perfect, true, and pure. 

Her virtue all virtue so endears. 
That often, when he thinks of her. 

Life's meanness fills his eyes with tears. 



LETITIA E. LANDON. 

THE SHEPHERD-BOY. 

Like some vision olden 

Of far other time. 
When the age was golden. 

In the young world's prime 
Is thy soft pipe ringing, 

O lonely shepherd-bo}% 
What song art thou singing. 

In thy youth and joy ? 

Or art thou complaining 

Of thy lowly lot. 
And thine own disdaining, 

Dost ask what thou hast not ? 
Of the future dreaming, 

Weary of the past. 
For the present scheming. 

All but what thou hast. 



254 



SONGS OF THREE CENTUKIES. 



No, thou art delighting 

In thy summer home, 
Where the flowers inviting 

Tempt the bee to roam ; 
Where the cowslip bending 

With its golden bells. 
Of each glad hour's ending 

With a sweet chime tells. 

All wild creatures love him 

When he is alone. 
Every bird above him 

Sings its softest tone, 
Thankful to high Heaven, 

Humble in thy joy, 
Much to thee is given, 

Lowly shepherd-boy. 



DEATH AND THE YOUTH. 

"Not yet, the flowers are in my path. 

The sun is in the sky ; 
Not yet, my heart is full of hope, 

I cannot bear to die. 

"Not yet, I never knew till now 
How precious life could be ; 

My heart is full of love, Death ! 
I cannot come with thee !" 

But Love and Hope, enchanted twain, 
Passed in tlieir falsehood by ; 

Death came again, and then he said, 
" I 'm ready now to die !" 



AUBREY DE VERE. 

THE SISTERS. 

" I KNOW not how to comfort thee ; 

Yet dare not say, Weep on ! 
I know how little life is worth 

When love itself is gone. 

"The mighty with the weak contend; 

The many with the few : 
The hard and heavy hearts oppress 

The tender and the true. 

"Had he been capable of love, 
Hia love had clung to thee ; 



He was too w-eak a thing to bear 
That noble energy. 

"Lift, lift your forehead from my lap, 

And lay it on my breast : 
I too have wept ; but you I deemed 

Still safe within your nest." 

Her words were vain, but not her tears ; 

The mourner raised her eyes, 
Subdued by the atoning power 

Of pitying sympathies : 

Subdued at first, erelong consoled, 

At last she ceased to moan ; 
For those who feel another's pain 

Will soon forget their own. 

ye whom broken vows bereave. 
Your vows to heaven restore ; 

ye for blighted love who grieve, 
Love deeper and love more ! 

The arrow cannot wound the air, 

Nor thunder rend the sea, 
Nor injury long afflict the heart 

That rests, Love, in thee ! 

The winds may blow, the waves may swell; 

But soon those tumults cease, 
And the pure element subsides 

Into its native peace. 



ALICE CAREY. 

[U. S. A.] 

KRUMLEY. 

BLUSHING flowers of Krumley ! 
'T is she who makes you sweet. 

1 envy every silver wave 
That laughs about her feet. 

How dare the waves, how dare the flowers, 
Else up and kiss her feet ? 

Ye wanton woods of Krumley ! 

Ye clasp her with your boughs. 
And stoop to kiss her all the way 

Beside her homeward cows. 
I hate ye, woods of Krumley, 

I 'm jealous of your boughs I 



ALICE CAREY. 



255 



I tpll }'e, banks of Krumley, 

'T is not your sunny days 
That set your meadows up and down 

With blossoms all ablaze. 
The flowers that love her crowd to bloom 

Along her trodden ways. 

dim and dewy Krumley, 

'T is not your birds at all 
That make the air one warble' 

From rainy spring to fall. 
They only mock the sweeter songs 

That from her sweet lips fall. 

bold, bold winds of Krumley, 
Do ye mean my heart to break, 

So light ye lift her yellow hair. 
So lightly kiss her cheek ? 

flower and bird, wave and wind, 
Ye mean my heart to break ! 



THE SURE WITNESS. 

The solemn wood had spread 
Shadows around my head, — ■ 
"Curtains they are," I said, 
"Hung dim and still about the house of 

prayer" ; 
Softly among the limbs, 
Turning the leaves of hymns, 
I hear the winds, and ask if God were 

there. 
No voice replied, but while I listening 

stood, 
Sweet peace made holy hushes through 

the wood. 

With ruddy, open hand, 

I saw the wild rose stand 

Beside the green gate of the summer hills. 

And pulling at her dress, 

I cried, "Sweet hermitess, 

Hast thou beheld Him who the dew dis- 
tils ?" 

No voice replied, but while I listening 
bent. 

Her gracious beauty made my heart con- 
tent. 

The moon in splendor shone, — 
"She walketh Heaven alone. 
And seeth all things," to myself I mused ; 
"Hast thou beheld Him, then, 
W^ho hides himself from men 
In that great power through nature in- 
terfused?" 



No speech made answer, and no sign ap- 
peared. 

But in the silence I was soothed and 
cheered. 

Waking one time, strange awe 

Thrilling my soul, I saw 

A kingly splendor round about the night ; 

Such cunning work the hand 

Of spinner never planned, — 

The finest wool may not be washed so 

white. 
"Hast thou come out of Heaven ?" 
I asked ; and lo ! 
The snow was all the answer of the snow. 



Then my heart said. Give o'er; 

Question no more, no more ! 

The wind, the snow-storm, the wild her- 
mit flower. 

The illuminated air. 

The pleasure after prayer. 

Proclaim the unoriginated Power! 

The mystery that hides liim here and 
there. 

Bears the sure witness he is everywhere. 



HER LAST POEM. 

Earth with its dark and dreadful ills, 

Recedes and fades away ; 
Lift up your heads, ye heavenly hills; 

Ye gates of death, give way ! 

My soul is full of whispered song, — 
My blindness is my sight ; 

The shadows that I leared so long 
Are full of life and light. 

My pulses faint and fainter beat. 
My faith takes wider bounds ; 

I feel grow firm beneath my feet 
The green, immortal grounds. 

The faith to me a courage gives. 

Low as the grave to go, — 
I know that rnv Redeemer lives, — 

That I shalflive I know. 

The palace walls I almost see 
Where dwells my Lord and King, 

grave, where is thy victo!y? 
death, where is thy sting? 



256 



SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 



PHEBE CAEEY. 

[U. S. A.] 

FIELD PREACHma. 

I HAVE been out to-day in field and wood. 
Listening to praises sweet ami con n sel good 
Such as a little child had undei-stuod, 

That, in its tender youtii, 
Discerns the simple eloipience of truth. 

The modest blossoms, crowding round 

my way, 
Though they had nothing gi'cat or gmnd 

to say, 
Gave out their fragi-ance to the wind all 

day ; 
Because His loving breath, 
"With soft persistence, won them back 

from death. 



And the right royal lily, putting on 
Her robes, more rich than those of Solo- 
mon, 
Opened her gorgeous missal in the sun, 
And thauk.'d Him, soft and low, 
"Whose gracious, liberal hand had clothed 
her so. 



"When wearied, on the meadow-gi-ass I 

sank ; 
So narrow was the rill from which I drank, 
An infant might have stepped from bank 

to bank ; 
And the tall rushes near 
Lapping together, hid its watei-s clear. 

Yet to the ocean joyously it went ; 
And rippling in the fulness of content, 
AVatered the pretty flowers that o'er it 

leant ; 
For all the banks were spread 
"With delicate flowere that on its bountv 

fed. 

The stately maize, a fair and goodly sight, 
AVith serried spear-points bristling sharp 

and bright. 
Shook out his yellow tresses, for delight, 

To all tiieir tawny length, 
Like Samson, glorying in his lusty 

strength. 

And every little bird upon the tree, 
Kuffling his plumage bright, for ecstasy, 



Sang in the wild insanity of glee ; 

And seemed, in the same lays. 
Calling his mate and uttering songs of 
praise. 

The golilen grasshopper did chirp and sing ; 
The plain bee, busy with her liousekeep- 

Kept humming cheerfully upon the wing, 

As if she understood 
That, with contentment, labor was a good. 

I saw each creature, in his own best place, 
To the Creator lift a smiling face. 
Praising continuallv his wondrous gi^ace ; 

As if the best of all 
Life's countless blessings was to live at all ! 

So with a book of sermons, plain and true, 
Hid in my heart, where 1 might turn 

them through, 
1 went home softly, through the falling 

dew, 
Still listening, rayt and calm. 
To Nature gi^"iug out her evening psalm. 

While, far along the west, mine eyes dis- 
cerned. 

Where, lit by God, the fires of sunset 
burned. 

The tree-tops, unconsumed, to flame were 
turned ; 
And I, in that great hush, 

Talked with His angels in each burning 
bush! 



NEARER HOME. 

One sweetly welcome thought, 
Comes to me o'er and o'er; 

I 'm nearer home to-day 
Than I 've ever been before ; 

Nearer my Father's house 

Where the many mansions be ; 

Nearer the Great White Throne, 
Nearer the Jasper Sea ; 

Nearer that bound of life, 

Where we lay our burdens dovra, — 
Nearer leaving the cross. 

Nearer gaining the crown. 

But lying dimly between. 

Winding down through the night. 
Lies the dark and uncwtain stream 

That leads us at length to the light. 



SYDNEY DOBELL. 



257 



Closer and closer my steps 

Come to the dark abysm, 
Closer Death to my li[)S 

Presses the awful chiasm ; 

Father, perfect my trust ! 

Strengthen my feeble faith ! 
Let me feel as I shall, when I stand 

On the shores of the river of death : — 

Feel as I would, were my feet 

Even now slipping over the brink, — 
For it may be 1 am nearer home, 

Nearer now, than I think ! 



PEACE. 

Land, of every land the best, — 
Land, whose glory shall increase ; 

Now in your whitest raiment drest 
For the great festival of peace : 

Take from your flag its fold of gloom, 
And let it float undimmed above, 

Till over all our vales shall bloom 
The sacred colors that we love. 

On mountain high, in vallfy low, 
Set Freedom's living fires to bum ; 

Until the midnight sky shall show 
A redder glory than the mom. 

"Welcome, with shouts of joy and pride, 
Your veterans from the war-path's 
track ; 

You gave your boj's, untrained, untried ; 
You bring them men and heroes back ! 

And shed no tear, though think you must 
"With sorrow of the mait}Ted band; 

Not even for him whose hallowed dust 
Has made our prairies holy land. 

Though by the places where they fell, 
Tlie places that are sacred ground. 

Death, like a sullen sentinel, 
Paces his everlasting round. 

Yet when they set their country free, 
And gave hfr traitors fitting doom. 

They left their last great enemy. 
Baffled, beside an empty tomb. 
17 



Xot there, but risen, redeemed, they go 
"Where all the paths aie sweet' with 
flowers ; 

They fought to give us peace, and lo ! 
They gained a better j)eace than ours. 



SYDNTY DOBELL. 

KEITH OF RAVELSTON. 

HAPPY, happy maid. 

In the year of war and death 

She wears no sorrow ! 

By her face so young and fair. 

By the happy wreath 

That mles her hajipy hair. 

She might be a bride to-morrow ! 

She sits and sings within her moonlit 
bower, 

Her moonlit Viower in rosy June, 

Y'et ah, her bridal breath. 

Like fragrance from some sweet night- 
blowing flower. 

Moves from her moving lips in many a 
mournful tune ! 

She sings no song of love's desfiair, 

She sings no lover lowly laid, 

No fond peculiar grief 

Has ever touched or bud or leaf 

Of her unblighted sjmng. 

She sings because she needs must sing ; 

She sings the sorrow of the air 

^Vhereof her voice is made. 

That night in Britain howsoe'er 

On any chords the fingers strayed 

They gave the notes of care. 

A dim sad legend old 

Long since in some pale shade 

Of some far twilight told, 

She knows not when or where, 

She -sings, with trembling hand on trem- 
bling lute-strings laid : — 

The murmur of the mouming ghost 
That keeps the shadowy kine, 

" Keith of Piavelston, 
The sorrows of thy line ! " 

Ravelston, Piavelston, 

The merry path that leads 
Down the golden morning hill. 

And through the silver meads ; 

Kavelston, Ravelston, 

The stile beneath the tree. 



258 



SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 



Tlie maid that kept her mother's kiiie, 
The song that sang slie ! 

Slie sang her song, she kept her kine, 

She sat beneath the thorn 
"When Andrew Keith of Kavelstou 

Kode through the Monday morn ; 

His henchmen sing, his liawk-bells ring, 

His belted jewels shine ! 
Keith of Havelston, 

The sorrows of thy line ! 

Year after year, where Andrew came, 
Comes evening down the glade. 

And still there sits a moonshine ghost 
Where sat the sunshine maid. 

Her misty hair is faint and fair, 
Slie keeps tlie shadowy kine; 

Keith of Havelston, 
The sorrows of thy line ! 

1 lay my hand upon the stile, 

The stile is lone and cold. 
The burnie that goes babbling by 
Says naught that can be told. 

Yet, stranger ! here, from year to year, 
Slie keeps her shadowy kine ; 

Keith of Ravelston, 
The sorrows of thy line ! 

Step out three steps, where Andrew stood ; 

Why blanch thy cheeks for fear? 
The ancient stile is not alone, 

'T is not the burn I hear ! 

Slie makes her immemorial moan, 
She keeps her shadowy kine ; 

Keith of Ravelston, 
The sorrows of thy line ! 



THO:\IAS BURBIDGE. 



CoMKS something down with eventide, 
Beside the sunset's golden bars, 

Beside the floating scents, beside 
The twinkling shadows of the stars. 

Upon the river's rip]iliiig face. 
Flash after flash the white 



Broke up in many a shallow place ; 
The rest was soft and bright. 

By chance my eye fell on the stream ; 

How many a marvellous ]>ower 
Sleeps in us, — sleeps, and doth not 
dieani ! 

This knew 1 in that hour. 

For then my heart, so full of strife, 

No more was in me stirred ; 
My life was in the river's life. 

And I nor saw nor heard. 

I and the river, we were one : 
The shade beneath the bank, 

I felt it cool ; the setting sun 
Into my spirit sank. 

A rushing thing in power serene 

I was ; the mystery 
I felt of having ever been 

And being still to be. 

Was it a moment or an hour ? 

I knew not ; but I mourned 
When, from that realm of awful power 

I to these fields returned. 



KOSE TERRY COOKE. 



[V. 



THE ICONOCLAST. 

A THOUSAND years shall come and go, 
A thousand years of night and day. 

And man, through all their changing 
show, 
His tragic drama still shall play. 

Ruled by some fond ideal's power. 
Cheated by passion or ilesjiair. 

Still shall he waste life's trembling hour, 
I n worship vain, and useless prayer. 

.\h ! wliere are they who rose in might, 
Who fired the temple and the shrine, 

And hurled, through earth's chaotic night, 
The helpless gods it deemed divine ? 

Cease, longing soul, thy vain desire ! 

What idol, in its stainless prime. 
But falls, untouched of axe or fire. 

Before the steady eyes of Time ? 



ANNE C. (LYNCH) BOTTA. 



250 



He looks, and lo ! our altars fall, 
Tlie shrine reveals its gilded clay, 

With decent hands we spread the pall, 
And, cold with wisdom, glide away. 

0, where were couraj^e, faith, and truth. 
If man went wandering all his day 

In golden clouds of love and youth. 
Nor knew that both his steps betray ? 

Come, Time, while here we sit and wait, 
Be faithful, spoiler, to thy trust ! 

No death can farther desolate 

The soul that knows its god was dust. 



"IT IS MORE BLESSED." 

Give ! as the morning that flows out of 

heaven ; 
Give! as the waves when their channel 

is riven ; 
Give ! as the free air and sunshine are 

given ; 
Lavishly, utterly, carelessly give. 
Not the waste drops of thy cup ovei-flow- 

ing. 
Not the faint sparks of thy hearth ever 

glowing. 
Not a ymle bud from the June rose's 

blowing ; 
Give as He gave thee, who gave thee 

to live. 

Pour out thy love like the rush of a river 
"Wasting its waters, for ever and ever. 
Through the burnt sands that reward 
not the giver; 
Silent or songful, thou nearest the sea. 
Scatter thy life as the Summer shower's 

pouring ! 
What if no bird through the pearl-rain 

Ls soaring? 
What if no blossom looks upward adoring? 
Look to the life that was lavished for 
thee! 

Give, though thy heart may be wasted 

and wear}'. 
Laid on an altar all ashen and dreary ; 
Though from its pulses a faint miserere 
Beatstothvsoul the sad presage of fate. 



Bind it with cords of unshrinking devo- 
tion; 
Smile at the song of its restless emotion ; 
'T is the stem hymn of ftemity's ocean ; 
Hear ! and in silence thy future await. 



So the wild wind strews its perfumed 

caresses, 
P>il and thankless the desert it bli'sses, 
Bitter the wave thatitssoftpinion presses, 

Never it ceaseth to whisper and sing. 
What if the hard heart give thorns for 

thy roses? 
What if on rocks thy tired bosom reposes ? 
Sweetest Lsmusic with minor-keyed closes, 

Fairest the vines that on ruin will cling. 

Almost the day of thy giving is over ; 
Ere from the grass dies the bee-haunted 

clover. 
Thou wilt have vanished from friend and 

from lover. 
What shall thy longing avail in the 

grave? 
Give as the heart gives whose fetters are 

breaking. 
Life, love, and hope, all thy dreams and 

thy waking. 
Soon, heaven's river thy soul-fever slak- 
ing, 
Thou shalt know God and the gift that 

lie gave. 



AX^'E C. (LYNCH) BOTTA. 

[v. S. A.] 



LOVE. 

Go forth in life, friend ! not seeking 
love, 
A mendicant that with imploring eye 
And outstretched hand asks of the 
passers-by 
The alms his strong necessities may move : 
For such poor love, to pity near allied, 
Thy generous spirit may not stooj) and 
wait, 
A suppliant whose prayer may be denied 
Likeaspumed beggar'satapalace-gate : 
But thy heart's affluence lavish uncon- 
trolled,— 
The largess of thy love give full and 
free, 
As monarchs in their progress scatter 
gold ; 
And be thy heart like the exhaustless 
sea. 
That must its wealth of cloud and dew 

bestow, 
Though tributarj- streams or ebb or flow. 



260 



SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 



LYDIA H. SIGOUENEY. 

[U. S. A., 1791 - 1865.] 

INDIAN NAMES. 

Ye say they all have passed away, 

That noble race and brave ; 
That their light canoes have vanished 

From off the crested wave ; 
That mid the forests where they roamed 

There rings no hunter's shout ; 
But their name is on your waters, 

Ye may not wash it out. 

'T is where Ontario's billow 

Like ocean's surge is curled, 
"Where strong Niagara's thunders wake 

The echo of the world. 
"Where red Missouri bringeth 

Rich tribute from the West, 
And Kajipahannock sweetly sleeps. 

On green Virginia's breast. 

Ye say tlieir cone-like cabins, 

That clustered o'er the vale, 
Have Hed away like withered leaves 

Before the autumn gale ; 
But their memory liveth on your hills. 

Their baptism on your shore. 
Your everlasting rivers speak 

Their dialect of yore. 

Old Massachusetts wears it 

Upon her lordly crown. 
And broad Ohio bears it 

Amid his young renown ; 
Connecticut hath wreathed it 

Where her quiet foliage waves ; 
And bold Kentucky breathed it hoarse 

Through all her ancient caves. 

"Wachusett hides its lingering voice 

"Within his rocky heart. 
And Alleghany graves its tone 

Throughout his lofty chart ; 
Monadnock on his forehead hoar 

Doth seal the sacred trust ; 
Your mountains build their monument. 

Though ye destroy their dust. 

Ye call these red-browed brethren 

Tiie insects of an hour, 
Crushed like the noteless worm amid 

The regions of their power; 
Ye drive them from their fathers' lands, 

Ye break of faith the seal, 



But can ye from the court of Heaven 
Exclude their last appeal '( 

Ye see their unresisting tribes, 

With toilsome step and slow, 
On through the trackless desert pass, 

A caravan of woe ; 
Think ye the Eternal Ear is deaf < 

His sleepless vision dim? 
Think ye the soul's blood may not cry 

From that far land to him '! 



AVILLIAM H. FURNESS. 

[U. S. A.] 



ETERNAL LIGHT. 

Slowly, by God's hand unfurled, 
Down around the weary world, 
Falls the darkness ; 0, how still 
Is the working of his will ! 

Mighty Spirit, ever nigh. 
Work in me as silently ; 
Veil the day's distracting sights. 
Show me heaven's eternal lights. 

Living stars to view be brought 
In the boundless realms of thought; 
High and infinite desires. 
Flaming like those upper fires. 

Holy Truth, Eternal Eight, 
Let "them break upon my sight ; 
Let them shine serene and still. 
And with light my being fill. 



JAMES T. FIELDS. 

[U. S. A.] 

WORDSWORTH. 

The grass hung wet on Rydal banks. 
The golden day with pearls adorning, 

When side by side with him we walked 
To meet midway the summer morning. 

The west-wind took a softer breath. 
The sun himself seemed brighter shin- 
ing, 



HENRY HOWARD BROWN ELL. 



261 



As through the porch the minstrel 
ste])ped, — 
His eye sweet Nature's look enshrining. 

He passed along the dewy sward, 

The bluebird sang aloft "good mor- 
row!" 

He plucked a bud, the flower awoke, 
And smiled without one pang of sor- 



He spoke of all that graced the scene, 
In tones that fell like music round us ; 

"We felt tlie cliarm descend, nor strove 
To break the rapturous spell that bound 



We listened with mysterious awe. 

Strange feelings mingling with our 
pleasuie ; 
We heard that day prophetic words. 
High thoughts the heart must always 
treasure. 

Great Nature's Priest ! thy calm career 
With that sweet morn on earth has 
ended : 
But who shall say thy mission died 
When, winged for Heaven, thy soul 
ascended ! 



HENRY HOWARD BROWNELL. 

[ir. s. A., 1820- 1872.] 
THE BURIAL OF THE DANE. 

Bli'E gulf all around us, 

Blue sky overhead, — 
]\Iuster all on the quarter, 

We must bury the dead! 

It is but, a Danish sailor, 

Rugged of front and form ; 
A common son of the forecastle, 

Grizzled with sun and storm. 

His name and the strand he hailed from 
W^e know, — and there 's nothing more ! 

But perhaps his mother is waiting 
In the lonely island of Fohr. 



Still, as he lay there dying. 

Reason drifting awreck, 
"'Tis my watch," he -would mutter, 

"I must go upon deck !" 

Ay, on deck,— by the foremast! — 
But watch and lookout are done; 

The Union -Jack laid o'er him. 
How quiet he lies in the sun ! 

Slow the ponderous engine, 

Stay the hurrying shaft ! 
Let the roll of the ocean 

Cradle our giant craft, — 
Gather around the grating. 

Carry your mess'mate aft ! 

Stand in order, and listen 

To the holiest page of prayer ! 

Let every foot be quiet, 
Every head be bare, — 

The soft trade-wind is lifting 
A hundred locks of hair. 

Our captain reads the service 
(A little spray on his cheeks), 

The grand old words of burial, 

And the trust a true heart seeks, — 

"We therefore commit his body 
To the deep," — and, as he speaks, 

Launched from the weather-railing, 
Swift as the eye can mark. 

The ghastly, shotted hammock 
Plunges, away from the shark, 

Down, a thousand fathoms, 
Down into the dark ! 

A thousand summers and winters 
Tlie stormy Gulf shall roll 

High o'er his canvas coffin, — 
I3ut, silence to doubt and dole! 

There's a quiet haibor somewhere 
For the poor a-weary soul. 

Free the fettered engine, 

Speed the tireless shaft ! 
Loose to'gallant and topsail, 

The breeze is fair abaft ! 

Blue sea all around us. 

Blue sky bj-ight o'erhead, — 

Every man to his duty ! 
We have buried our dead. 



262 



SONGS OF THREE CENTUKIES. 



BAYARD TAYLOR. 

[U. S. A.] 

THE MOUNTAINS. 

(From "The Masque of the Gods.") 

Howe'er the wheels of Time go round, 

We cannot wholly be discrowned. 

We bind, in form, and hue, and height, 

The Finite to the Infinite, 

And, lifted on our shoulders bare, 

The races breathe an ampler air. 

Thearms that clasped, thelipsthatkissed, 

Have vanished from the morning mist ; 

The daintyshapes that Hashed and _ 

In sj>ray the plunging torrent cast. 

Or danced through woven gleam anc 

shade, 
The vapors and the sunbeams braid, 
(J row thin and pale : each holy haunt 
Of gods or spirits ministrant 
Hath something lost of ancient awe ; 
Yet from the stooping heavens we draw 
A beauty, mystery, and might, 
Time cannot change nor worship slight. 
The gold of dawn and sunset sheds 
Unearthly glory on our heads ; 
The secret of the skies we keej) ; 
And whispers, round each lonely steep, 
Allure and promise, yet withhold, 
What bard and prophet never told. 
While Man's slow ages come and go. 
Our dateless chronicles of snow 
Their changeless old inscription show, 
And men therein forever see 
The unread speech of Deity. 



AN ORIENTAL IDYL. 

A SILVER javelin which the hills 
Have hurled upon the plain below. 

The fleetest of the Fharpar's rills, 
Beneath me shoots in flashing flow. 

I hear the never-ending laugh 

Of jostling waves that come and go, 

And suck the bubbling pipe, and quaff 
The sherbet cooled in mountain snow. 

The flecks of sunshine gleam like stars 
Beneath the canopy of shade ; 

And in the distant, dim bazaars, 
I scarcely hear the hum of trade. 



No evil fear, no dream forlorn, 

Darkens my heaven of perfect blue ; 

My blood is tempered to the morn, — 
My very heart is steeped in dew. 

What Evil is I cannot tell ; 

But half I guess what Joy may be; 
And, as a pearl within its shell, 

The happy spirit sleeps in me. 

I feel no more the pulse's stiife, — 
The tides of Fassion's ruddy sea, — 

But live the sweet, unconscious life 
That breathes from yonderjasnune-tree. 

Upon the glittering pageantries 
Of gay Damascus streets I look 

As idly as a babe that sees 

The painted pictures of a book. 

Forgotten now are name and race ; 

The Fast is blotted from my brain ; 
For Memory sleeps, and will not trace 

The weary pages o'er again. 

I only know the morning shines, 
And sweet the dewy morning air. 

But does it play with tendrilled vines ? 
Or does it lightly lift my hair? 

Deep-sunken in the charmed repose, 
This ignorance is bliss extreme ; 

And whether I be Man, or Eose, 

0, pluck me not from out my dream ! 



THE VOYAGERS. 

No longer spread the sail i 

No longer sti'ain the oar ! 
For never yet has blown the gale 

Will bring us nearer shore. 

The swaying keel slides on. 
The helm obeys the hand ; 

Fast we have sailed from dawn to dawn, 
Yet never reach the land. 

Each morn we see its peaks, 
Made beautiful with snow ; 

Each eve its vales and winding creeks, 
That sleep in mist below. 

At noon we mark the gleam 

Of temples tall and fair ; 
At midnight watch its bonfires stream 

In the auroral air. 




"The secret of the skies we keep." — Page 262. 



SARA J. LIPPIXCOTT JGRACE GREENWOOD). 



2G3 



And still the keel is swift, 
And still the wind is IVee, 

And still as far its mountains lift 
Beyond the enchanted sea. 

Yet vain is all return, 

Though false the goal before ; 
The gale is ever dead astern, 

The current sets to shore. 

shipmates, leave the ropes ; 

And what though no one steers, 
We sail no faster lor our hopes, 

No slower for our fears. 



THE SONG OF THE CAMP. 

"Give us a song!" the soldiers cried, 
The outer trenches guarding, 

When the heated guns of the camps allied 
Grew weary of bombarding. 

The dark Eedan, in silent scoff, 
Lay, grim and threatening, under; 

And the tawny mound of the Malakoff 
No longer belched its thunder. 

There was a pause. A guardsman said : 
" We storm the forts to-morrow ; 

Sing while we may, another day 
Will bring enough of sorrow." 

They lay along the battery's side, 

Below the smoking cannon : 
Bravehearts, fromSevernand from Clyde, 

And from the banks of Shannon. 

They sang of love, and not of fame ; 

Forgot was Britain's glory : 
Each heart recalled a different name. 

But all sang "Annie Laurie." 

Voice after voice caught iip the song, 

Until its tender passion 
Rose like an anthem, ri(!h and strong, — 

Their battle-eve confession. 

Dear girl, her name he dared not speak, 
But, as the song grew louder, 

Something upon the soldier's cheek 
Washed off the stains of powder. 

Beyond the darkening ocean burned 

"The bloody sunset's embers, 
While the Crimean valleys learned 

How English love remembers. 



And once again a fire of liell 

Rained on the Russian quarters, 

With scream of shot, and burst of shell. 
And bellowing of the mortars ! 

And Irish Nora's eyes are dim 
For a singer, dumb and gory ; 

And English Mary mourns for liini 
Who sang of "Annie Laurie." 

Sleep, soldiers ! still in honored rest 
Your truth and valor wearitig ; 

The bravest are the tenderest, — 
The loving are the daring. 



SAEA J. LIPPINCOTT (GRACE 
GREENWOOD). 

[U. S. A.] 

THE POET OF TO-DAY. 

More than the soul of ancient song is 
given 
To thee, poet of to-day ! — thy 
dower 
Comes, from a higher than Olympian 
heaven, 
In holier beauty and in laiger power. 

To thee Humanity, her woes revealing, 
Would all her griefs and ancimt 
wrongs rehearse ; 
Would make thy song the voice of her 
appealing. 
And sob her mighty sorrows through 
thy verse. 

While in her season of great darkness 
sharing. 
Hail thou the coming of each promise- 
star 
Which climbs the midnight of her long 
despairing, 
And watch for morning o'er the hills 
afar. 

Wherever Truth her holy warfare wages. 
Or Freedom pines, there let thy voice 
be heard ; 
Sound like a prophet-warning down the 
ages 
The human utterance of God's living 
word. 



264 



SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 



But bring not thou the battle's stormy 
chorus, 
The tramp of armies, arid the roar of 
fight. 
Not war's hot smoke to taint the sweet 
morn o'er us. 
Nor blaze of i)illage, reddening uji the 
night. 

0, let thy lays prolong that angel-sing- 
ing. 
Girdling with music the Redeemer's 
star, 
And breathe God's peace, to earth 'glad 
tidings ' bringing 
From tlie near heavens, of old so dim 
and far ! 



ALEXANDER SMITH. 

[1830- 1S67.] 

LADY BARBARA. 

Earl Gawain wooed the Lady Barbara, 
High-thoughted Barbara, so white and 

cold ! 
'^long broad-branched beeches in the 

summer shaw. 
In soft green light his passion he has 

told. 
When rain-beat winds did shriek across 

the wold, 
The Earl to take her fair reluctant ear 
Framed passion-trembled ditties mani- 
fold ; 
Silent she sat his amorous breath to 

hear. 
With calm and steady eyes; her heart 

was otherwhere. 

He sighed for her through all the sum- 
mer weeks ; 

Sitting beneath a tree whose fruitful 
boughs 

Bore glorious apples with smooth, shin- 
ing cheeks. 

Earl Gawain came and whispered, "Lady, 
rouse ' 

Thou art no vestal held in holy vows ; 

Out with our falcons to the pleasant 
heath." 

Her father's blood leapt up unto her 
brows, — 



He who, exulting on the trumpet's breath. 
Came charging like a star across the 
lists of death, 

Trembled, and passed before her high 

rebuke : 
And then she sat, her hands clasped 

round her knee : 
Like one far-thoughted was the lady's 

look. 
For in a morning cold as misery 
She saw a lone ship sailing on the sea ; 
Before the north 't was driven like a 

cloud. 
High on the poop a man sat mournfully : 
The wind was Avhistling through mast 

and shroud. 
And to the whistling wind thus did he 

sing aloud : — 

" Didst look last night upon my native 

vales. 
Thou Sun ! that from the drenching sea 

hast clomb ? 
Ye demon winds ! that glut my gaping 

sails. 
Upon the salt sea must I ever roam, 
Wander forever on the barren foam ? 
0, happy are ye, resting mariners ! 
Death, that thou wouhlst come and 

and take me home ! 
A hand unseen this vessel onward steers, 
And onward I must float through slow, 

moon -measured years. 

"Ye winds! when like a curse j^e drove 

us on, 
Frothing the waters, and along our way, 
Nor cape nor headland through red 

mornini's shone. 
One wept aloud, one shuddered down to 

pray, 
One howled ' Upon the deep we are 

astray.' 
On our wild hearts his words fell like a 

blight: 
In one sliort hour my hair was stricken 

gray, 
For all the crew sank ghastly in my 

sight 
As we went driving on through the 

cold starry night. 

" Madness fell on me in my loneliness, 
The sea foamed curses, and the reeling 
sky 



MATTHEW ARNOLD. 



265 



Became a dreadful face which did oppress 
Me with the weiglit of its unwiukiug 

eye. 
It fied, when I burst forth into a cry, — 
A shoal of fiends came on me from the 

deep ; 
I hid, but in all corners they did pry, 
And dragged me forth, and round did 

dance and leap ; 
They mouthed on me in dream, and tore 

me from sweet sleep. 

"Strange constellations burned above 

my head, 
Strange birds around the vessel shrieked 

and Hew, 
Strange shapes, like shadows, through 

the clear sea fled. 
As our lone ship, wide-winged, came 

rippling tlirough. 
Angering to foam the smooth and sleep- 
ing blue. " 
The lady sighed, "Far, far upon the sea, 
;My own Sir Arthur, could I die with you ! 
The wind blows shrill between my love 

and me." 
Fond heart ! the space between was but 

the apple-tree. 

There was a cry of joy, with seeking 

hands 
She fled to him, like worn bird to her 

nest; 
Like washing water on the figured sands. 
His being came and went in sweet un- 
rest. 
As from the miglity shelter of his breast 
The Lady Barbara her head uprears 
"With a wan smile, "Methinks I 'm but 

half blest : 
Now when I 've found thee, after weary 

years, 
I cannot see thee, love ! so blind I am 
with tears." 



MATTHEW AEXOLD. 

THE TERRACE AT BERNE. 

Tex years ! — and to my waking eye 
Once more the roofs of Berne aj)pear; 

The rocky banks, the terrace high, 
The stream, — and do 1 linger here ? 



The clouds are on the Oberland, 

The Jungfrau snows look faint and far ; 

But bright are those green fields at hand. 
And through those fields comes down 
the Aar, 

And from the blue twin lakes it comes. 
Flows by the town, the churchyard 
fair, 
And 'neath the garden-walk it hums, 
The house, — and is my Marguerite 
there ? 

Ah, shall I see thee, while a flush 
Of startled pleasure floods thy brow, 

Quick through the oleanders brush. 
And clap thy hands, and cry, 'Tis 
thou? 

Or hast thou long since wandered back, 
Daughter of France! to France, thy 
home ; 

And flitted down the flowery track 
Where feet like thine too lightly come ? 

Doth riotous laughter now replace 
Thy smile, and rouge, with stony glare. 

Thy cheek's soft hue and fluttering lace 
The kerchief that enwound thy hair? 

Or is it over? — art thou dead ? — 
Dead?- — and no warning shiver ran 

Across my heart, to say thy thread 
Of life was cut, and closed thy span ! 

Could from earth's ways that figure slight 
Be lost, and I not feel 't was so ? 

Of that fresh voice the gay delight 
Fail from earth's air, and 1 not know ? 

Or shall I find thee still, but changed. 
But not the Marguerite of thy prime? 

With all thy being rearranged, 
Passed through the crucible of time ; 

With spirit vanished, beauty waned, 
And hardly yet a glance, a tone, 

A gesture, — anj'thing, — retained 

Of all that was my Marguerite's own ? 

I will not know ! — for wherefore try 
To things by mortal course that live 

A shadowy durability 

For which they were not meant to give ? 

Like driftwood spars which meet and pass 
Upon the boundless ocean-plain. 



266 



SONGS OF THREE CENTUKIES. 



So on the sea of life, alas ! 

Man nears man, meets, and leaves again. 

I knew it when my life was young, 
I feel it still, now youth is o'er ! 

The mists are on the mountain hung. 
And Marguerite I shall see no more. 



URANIA. 

She smiles and smiles, and will not sigh. 
While we for hopeless passion die ; 
Yet she could love, those eyes declare, 
Were but men nobler than they are. 

Eagerly once her gracious ken 
Was turned upon the sons of men ; 
But light the serious visage grew, — 
She looked, and smiled, and saw them 
through. 

Our petty souls, our strutting wits, 
Our labored puny passion-fits, — 
Ah, may she scorn them still, till we 
Scorn them as bitterly as she ! 

Yet 0, that Fate would let her see 
One of some worthier race than we, — 
One for wliose sake slie once might prove 
How deeply she who scorns can love. 

His eyes be like the starry lights, — - 
His voice like sounds of summer nights, — 
In all his lovely mien let pierce 
The magic of the universe ! 

And she to him will reach her hand, 
And gazing in his eyes will stand. 
And know her friend, and weeji for glee ! 
And cry, Long, long I've looked for thee ! 

Then will she weep, — with smiles, till 
then. 
Coldly she mocks the sons of men. 
Till then her lovely eyes maintain 
Their gay, unwavering, deep disdain. 



THE LAST WORD. 

Creep into thy narrow bed. 
Creep, and let no more be said ! 
Vain thy onset ! all stands fast ; 
Thou thyself must break at last. 



Let the long contention cease ! 
Geese are swans, and swans are geese. 
Let them have it how they will ! 
Thou art tired ; best be still ! 

They out-talked thee, hissed thee, tore 

thee. 
Better men fared thus before thee ; 
Fired their ringing shot and passed, 
tlotly charged, — and broke at last. 

Charge once more, then, and be dumb ! 
Let the victors, when they come, 
When the forts of folly fall. 
Find thy body by the wall. 



ROBERT LORD LYTTON. 



THE ARTIST. 

Artist, range not over-wide : 
Lest what thou seek be haply hid 

In bramble-blossoms at thy side, 
Or shut within the daisy-lid. 

God's glory lies not out of reach. 

The moss we crush beneath our feet, 
The pebbles on the wet sea-beach. 

Have solemn meanings strange and 
sweet. 

The peasant at his cottage door 

May teach thee more than Plato knew ; 

See that thou scorn him not : adore 
God in him, and thy nature too. 

Know well thy friends. The woodbine's 
breath. 

The woolly tendril on the vine. 
Are more to thee than Cato's death, 

Or Cicero's words to Catiline. 

The wild rose is thy next in blood : 
Share Nature with her, and thy heart. 

The kingcups are thy sisterhood : 
Consult them duly on thine art. 

The Genius on thy daily ways 

Shall meet, and take thee by the hand: 
But serve him not as who obeys : 

He is thy slave if thou command : 

And blossoms on the blackberry-stalks 
He shall enchant as thou dost pass, 



EGBERT LORD LYTTON. 



267 



Till they drop gold upon thy walks, 
And diamonds in the dewy grass. 

Be quiet. Take things as they come : 
Each hour will draw out some surprise. 

With blessing let the days go home: 
Thou shalt have thanks from evening 
skies. 

Lean not on one mind constantly : 

Lest, where one stood before, two fall. 

Something God hath to say to thee 
Worth hearing from the lips of all. 

All things are thine estate : yet must 
Thou hrst display the title-deeds. 

And sue the worlil. Be strong : and trust 
High instincts more than all the creeds. 

The world of Thought is packed so tight, 
if thou stand up another tumbles : 

Heed it not, though thou have to fight 
With giants ; whoso follows stumbles. 

Assert thyself: and by and by 

The world will come and lean on thee. 

But seek not praise of men : thereby 
Shall false shows cheat thee. Boldly 
be. 

Each man was worthy at the first : 
God spake to us ere we were born : 

But we forget. The land is curst : 
We plant the brier, reap the thorn. 

Remember, every man He made 
Is different : has some deed to do. 

Some work to work. Be undismayed. 
Though thine be humble : do it too. 

Not all the wisdom of the schools 

Is wise for thee. Hast thou to speak ? 

No man hath spoken for thee. Eules 
Are well : but never fear to break 

The scaffolding of other souls : 

It was not meant for thee to mount ; 

Though it may serve thee. Separate 
wholes 
Make up the sum of God's account. 

Earth's number-scale is near us set ; 

The total God alone can see ; 
But each some fraction : shall I fret 

If you see Four where I .saw Three ? 

A unit's loss the sum would mar ; 
Therefore if I have One or Two, 



I am as rich as others are. 

And help the whole as well as you. 

This wild white rosebud in my hand 
Hath meanings meant for me alone, 

Which no one else can understand : 
To you it breathes with altered tone : 

We go to Nature, not as lords, 

But servants ; and she treats us thus : 

Speaks to us with indifferent words. 
And from a distance looks at us. 

Let us go boldly, as we ought. 
And say to her, " We are a part 

Of that supreme original Thought 

Which did conceive thee what thou art : 

" We will not have this lofty look : 
Thou shalt fall down, and recognize 

Thy kings : we will write in thy book ; 
Command thee with our eyes." 

She hath usurpt us. She should be 
Our model ; but we have become 

Her miniature-painters. So when we 
Entreat her softly, she is dumb. 

Nor serve the subject overmuch : 

Nor rhythm and rhyme, nor color and 
form. 

Know Truth hath all great graces, such 
As shall with these thy work inform. 

We ransack History's tattered page : 
We prate of epoch and costume ; 

Call this, and that, the Classic Age : 
Choose tunic now, now helm and plume : 

But while we halt in weak debate 

'Twixtthat and this appropriate theme. 

The offended wild-flowers stare and wait, 
The bird hoots at us from the stream. 

Next, as to laws. W^hat 's beautiful 
We recognize in form and face : 

And judge it thus, and thus, by rule. 
As perfect law brings perfect grace : 

If through the effect we drag the cause, 

Dissect, divide, anatomize, 
Results are lost in loathsome laws. 

And all the ancient beauty dies : 

Till we, instead of bloom and light. 
See only sinews, nerves, and veins ; 

Nor will the effect and cause unite. 
For one is lost if one remains : 



268 



SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 



But from some higher point bchoLl 
This dense, perjilexing complication; 

And laws involved in laws nnl'old, 
And orb into thy contemplation. 

God, when lie made the seed, conceived 
The flower ; and all the work of sun 

And rain, before the stem was leaved, 
In that prenatal thought was done ; 

The girl who twines in her soft hair 
The orange-flower, withlove'sdevotion, 

By-the mere act of being fair 

Sets countless laws of life in motion ; 

So thou, by one thought thoroughly great, 
Shalt, without heed thereto, fultil 

All laws of art. Create ! create ! 

Dissection leaves the dead dead still. . 

Burn catalogues. Write thine own books. 

What need to pore o'er Greece and Kome? 
When whoso thi'ough his own life looks 

Shall find that he is fully come, 

Through Greece and Rome, and Middle 
Age: 

Hath been by turns, ere yet full-grown, 
Soldier, and Senator, and Sage, 

And worn the tunic and the gown. 

Cut the world thoroughly to the heart. 

The sweet and bitter kernel crack. 
Have no half-dealings with thine art. 

All heaven is waiting : turn not back. 

If all the world for thee and me 
One solitary shape possessed, 

What shall I say ? a single tree, 
Whereby to type and hint the rest, 

And I could imitate the bark 

And foliage, both in form and hue. 

Or silvery-gray, or brown and dark, 
Or rough with moss, or wet with dew, 

But thou, with one form in thine eye, 
Couldst penetrate all forms : possess 

The soul of form : and multiply 
A million like it, more or less, — 

Which were the Artist of us twain ? 

The moral 's clear to understand. 
Where'er we walk, by hill or plain, 

Is there no mystery on the land ? 



The osiered, oozy water, ruffled 

By fluttering swifts that dip and wink : 

Deep cattle in the cowslips mutfled, 
Or lazy-eyed upon the brink : 

Or, when — a scroll of stars — the night 
(By God withdrawn) is rolled away, 

The silent sun, on some cold height, 
Breaking the gi-eat seal of the day ; 

Are these not words more rich than ours ? 

0, seize their import if you can ! 
Our souls are parched like withering 
flowers, 

Our knowledge ends where it began. 

While yet about us fall God's dews, 
And whisper secrets o'er the earth 

Worth all the weary years we lose 
In learning legends of our birth, 

Arise, Artist ! and restore 

Their music to the moaning winds. 

Love's broken pearls to life's bare shore. 
And freshness to our fainting minds. 



AME WHITNEY. 

[U. S. A.] 

BERTHA. 

The leaves have fallen from the trees ; 
For under them grew the buds of May, 
And such is Nature's constant way; 

Let us accept the work of her hand. 
Still, if the winds sweep bare the height, 
Something is left for hearts' delight, 

Let us but know and understand. 

Berthalookeddown from the rocky cliff. 
Whose feet the tender foam-wreaths kist. 
Toward the outer circle of mist 

That hedged the old and wonderful sea. 
Below her, as if with endless hope. 
Up the beach's marbled slope, 

The waters clomb eternally. 

Many a long-bleached sail in sight 
Hovered awhile, then flitted away, 
Beyond the opening of the bay ; 

Fair Bertha entered her cottage late ; 
"He does not come,"she said, and smiled, 



J. H. PEEKIXS. 



269 



"But tlie shore is dark, and the sea is wild, 
And, dearest father, we still must wait." 

She hastened to her inner room, 
And silently mused there alone ; 
" Three springs have come, three winters 
gone, 

And still we wait from hour to hour; 
But earth waits long for her harvest-time, 
And the aloe, in the northern clime, 

AVaits an hundred years for its flower. 

"Under the apple-boughs as I sit 
In May-time, when the robin's song 
Thrills the odorous winds along, 

The innermost heaven seems to ope ; 
I think, though the old joys pass from 

sight, 
Still something is left for hearts' delight. 

For life is endless, and so is hope. 

"If the aloe waits an hundred years, 
And God's times are so long indeed 
For simple things, as flower and weed. 

That gather only the light and gloom, 

For what great treasure-s of joy and dole. 

Of life and death, perchance, must the 

soul. 

Ere it flower in heavenly peace, find 

room ? 

"I see that all things wait in trust, 
As feeling afar God's distant ends. 
And i;nto every creature he sends 

That measure of good that fillsits scope; 
The marmot enters the stiff"eningmoukl, 
And the M-orm its dark sepulchral fold. 

To hide there with its beautiful hope." 

Still Bertha waited on the cliff, 
To catch the gleam of a coming sail, 
And the distant whisper of the gale, 

Winging the unforgotten home ; 
And liope at her yearning heart would 

knock. 
When a sunbeam on a far-ofi" rock 

Married a wreath of wandering foam. 

Was it well? you ask — (nay, was it 
ill?)- 
Who sat last year by the old man's hearth ; 
The sun had passed below the earth. 
And the first star locked its western 
gate, 
When Bertha entered hisdarkeninghome, 
And smiling said, "He does not come, 
But, dearest father, we still can wait !" 



J. H. PERKIXS. 

[v. S. A.] 

THE UPRIGHT SOUL. 

Late to our town there came a maid, 
A noble woman, true and ])ure. 

Who, in the little while she stayed. 
Wrought works that shall endure. 

It was not anything she said, — 
It was not anything she did : 

It was the movement of her head, 
The lifting of her lid. 

Her little motions when she spoke. 
The presence of an upright soul. 

The living light that from her broke, 
It was the perfect whole : 

We saw it in her floating hair. 
We saw it in her laughing eye ; 

For every look and feature there 
Wrought works that cannot die. 

For she to many spirits gave 

A reverence for the true, the pure. 

The perfect, that has power to save, 
And make the doubting sure. 

She passed, she went to other lands. 
She knew not of the work she did ; 

The wondrous product of her hands 
From her is ever hid. 

Forever, did I say ? 0, no ! 

The time must come wlien she will look 
Upon her pilgrimage below, 

And find it in God's book, 

That, as she trod her path aright, 
Power from her very garments stole; 

For such is the mysterious might 
God grants the upright soul. 

A deed, a won!, our careless rest, 

A simple thought, a common feeling, 

If He he present in the breast, 
Has from him powers of healing. 

Go, maiden, with thy golden tresses, 
Thine azure eye and changing cheek, 

Go, and forget the one who blesses 
Thy presence through the week. 



270 



SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 



Forget him : he will not forget, 
But strive to live and testify 

Thj' goodness, when earth's sun has set, 
And Time itself rolled by. 



GEORGE MACDO^^iLD. 



O LASSIE AYONT THE HILL 1 

LASSIE ayont the hill ! 
Come ower the tap o' the hill, 
Or roun' the neuk o' the hill. 
For I want ye sair the nicht, 

1 'm needin' ye sair the nicht, 
For I 'm tired and sick o' mysel', 

A body's sel' 's the sairest weicht, — 

lassie, come ower the hill ! 

Gin a body could be a thocht o' grace, 
And no a sel' ava ! 

1 'm sick o' my held, and ray ban's and 

my face. 
An' my thochts and mysel' and a' ; 
I 'm sick o' the warl' and a' ; 
The licht gangs by wi' a hiss ; 
For thro' my een the sunbeams fa', 
But my weary heart they miss. 

lassie ayont the hill ! 
Come ower the tap o' the hill, 
Or roun' the neuk o' the hill ; 
Bidena ayont the hill ! 

For gin ance I saw yer bonnie heid, 

And the sunlicht o' yer hair, 

The ghaist o' mysel' wad fa' doun deid ; 

1 wad be mysel' nae mair. 
I wad be mysel' nae mair. 
Filled o' the sole remeid ; 

Slain by the arrows o' liclit frae yer hair. 
Killed by yer body and heid. 

lassie ayont the hill, etc. 

But gin ye lo'ed me ever sae sma'. 
For the sake o' my bonnie dame, 
Whan I cam' to life, as slie gaed awa', 

1 could bide my body and name, 

I niicht bide by mysel' the weary same; 

Aye setting np its heid 

Till I turn frae the claes that cover my 

frame. 
As gin they war roun' the deid. 
lassie ayont the hill, etc. 



But gin ye lo'ed me as I lo'e yon, 

I wad ring my ain deid knell ; 

Mysel' wad vanish, shot through and 

through 
Wi' the shine o' yer sunny sel'. 
By the licht aneath yer broo, 
I wad dee to mysel', and ring my bell, 
And only live in you. 

lassie ayont the hill ! 
Come ower the tap o' the hill. 
Or roun' the neuk o' the hill. 
For I want ye sair the nicht, 

1 'm needin' ye sair the nicht. 
For I 'm tired and sick o' mysel', 

A body's sel' 's the sairest weicht, — 
lassie, come ower the hill ! 



HYMN FOR THE MOTHER. 

My child is lying on my knees ; 

The signs of heaven she reads ; 
My face is all the heaven she sees, 

Is all the heaven she needs. 

And she is well, yea, bathed in bliss, 
If heaven is in my face, — 

Behind it is all tenderness 
And truthfulness and grace. 

I mean her well so eamesth'^, 
Unchanged in changing mood ; 

My life would go without a sigh 
To bring her something good. 

I also am a child, and I 

Am ignorant and weak ; 
I gaze upon the starry sky, 

And then I must not speak ; 

For all behind the starry sky. 
Behind the world so broad. 

Behind men's hearts and souls doth lie 
The Infinite of God. 

Ay, true to her, though troubled sore, 

I cannot choose but lie : 
Thou who art peace forevermore 

Art very true to me. 

If 1 am low and sinful, bring 
More love where need is rife ; 

Thnu knowest what an awful thing 
It is to be a life. 



ELIZA SPROAT TURNER. 



271 



Hast thou not wisdom to enwrap 
My waywardness about, 

In doubting safety on the lap 
Of Love that knows no doubt ? 

Lo ! Lord, I sit in thy wide space, 

My chikl upon my knee ; 
She looketli up into my face, 
, And I look up to thee. 



ELIZA SPPiOAT TURNER. 

[U. S. A.] 

AN ANGEL'S VISIT. 

She stood in the harvest-field at noon. 
And sang aloud for the joy of living. 

She said : "'T is the sun that I drink like 
wine, 
To my heart this gladness giving." 

Eank upon rank the wheat fell slain ; 

The reapers ceased. "'Tis sure the 
splendor 
Of sloping sunset light that thrills 

My breast with a bliss so tender." 

Up and up the blazing hills 

Climbed the night from the misty 
meadows. 
"Can they be stars, or living eyes 

That bend on me from the shadows?" 

"Greeting !" "And may you speak, in- 
deed?" 

All in the dark her sense grew clearer; 
She knew that she had, for company, 

All day an angel near her. 

"May }'ou tell us of the life divine. 
To us unknown, to angels given?" 

"Count me your earthly joys, and I 
May teach you those of heaven. " 

"They say the pleasures of earth are vain ; 

Delusions all, to lure from duty ; 
But while God hangs his bow in the rain, 

Can I help my joy in beauty ? 

"Andwhile he quickens the air with song, 
My breaths with scent, my fruits with 
flavor, 



"Will he, dear angel, count as sin 
]\ly life in sound and savor ? 

"See, at our feet the glow-worm shines, 
Lo ! in the east a star arises ; 

And thought may climb from worm to 
world 
Forever through fresh surprises : 

"And thought is joy. . . . And, hark! 
in the vale 
Music, and merry steps pursuing ; 
They leap in the dance, ^ a soul in my 
blood 
Cries out. Awake, be doing ! 

"Action is joy; or power at play, 
Or power at work in world or emprises : 

Action is life ; part from the deed, 
More from the doing rises." 

"And are these all ?" She flushed in the 
dark. 

"These are not all. I have a lover; 
At sound of his voice, at touch of his hand. 

The cup of my life runs over. 

"Once, unknowing, we looked and 
neared. 
And doubted, and neared, and rested 
never. 
Till life seized life, as flame meets flame. 
To escape no more forever. 

"Lover and husband; then was love 
The wine of my life, all life enhancing : 

Now 't is my bread, too needful and sweet 
To be kept for feast-day chancing. 

' ' I have a child. " She seemed to change ; 
The deep content of some brooding 
creature 
Looked from her eyes. "0, sweet and 
strange ! 
Angel, be thou my teacher : 

" When He made us one in a babe. 
Was it for joy, or sorest proving? 

For now I fear no heaven could win 
Our hearts from earthly loving. 

"I have a friend. Howso I eiT, 
I see her uplifting love bend o'er me; 

Howso I climb to my best, I know 
Her foot will be there before me. 



272 



SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 



"Howso parted, we must be nigh, 
Held by old years of every weather ; 

The best new love would be less than ours 
Who have lived our lives together. 

"Now, lest forever I fail to see 
Eight skies, through clouds so bright 
and tender, 

Show me true joy." The angel's smile 
Lit all the night with splendor. 

"Save that to Love and Learn and Do 
In wondrous measure to us is given ; 

Save that we see the face of God, 

You have named the joys of heaven." 



CHRISTINA EOSSETTI. 



AFTER DEATH. 

The curtains were half drawn, the floor 
was swept 
And strewn with rushes ; rosemary and 

may 
Lay thick upon the bed on which I lay, 
Where through the lattice ivy-shadows 

crept. 
He leaned above me, thinking that I slept, 
And could not hear him ; but I heard 

him say, 
"Poor child! poor child!" and as he 
turned away. 
Came a deep silence, and I knew he wept. 
He did not touch the shroud, or raise 
the fold 
That hid my face, or take my hand in his, 
r ruifle the smooth pillows for m y head . 
He dill not love me living : but once 
dead 
He pitied me ; and very sweet it is 
To know he still is warm, though I am 
cold. 



WEARY. 

I WOULD have gone ; God bade me stay : 
I would have worked; God bade me 
rest. 
He broke my will from day to day ; 
He read my yearnings unexpressed. 
And said me nay. 



Now I would stay ; God bids me go : 
Now I would rest ; God bids me work. 

He breaks my heart tossed to and fro ; 
My soul is wrung with doubts that lurk 
And vex it so ! 

I go, Lord, where thou sendest me ; 

Day after day I plod and moil ; 
But, Christ my Lord, when will it be 

That I may let alone my toil 
And rest with thee ? 



DOEA GREENWELL. 



THE SUNFLOWER. 

Till the slow daylight pale, 
A willing slave, fast bound to one above, 
I wait ; he seems to speed, and change, 
and fail ; 

I know he will not move. 

I lift my golden orb 
To his, unsmitten when the roses die. 
And in my broad and burning disk ab- 
sorb 

The splendors of his eye. 

His eye is like a clear 
Keen flame that searches through me ; I 

must droop 
Upon my stalk, I cannot reach his sphere ; 

To mine he cannot stoop. 

I win not my desire. 
And yet I fail not of my guerdon ; lo ! 
A thousand flickering darts and tongues 
of Are 

Around me spread and glow ; 

All rayed and crowned, I miss 
No queenly state until the summer wane. 
The hours flit by ; none knoweth of my 
bliss, 

And none has guessed my pain ; 

I follow one above, 
I track the shadow of his steps, I grow 
Most like to him I love 

Of all that shines below. 



ELIZABETH H. WHITTIER. 



273 



When I have said my quiet say, 
When I have sung my little song, 
How sweetly, sweetlv dies the day 
The valley and the liill along ; 
How sweet the summons, "Come away,' 
That calls me from the busy throng ! 

I thought beside the water's flow 
Awhile to lie beneath the leaves, 
I thought in Autumn's harvest glow 
To rest my head upon the sheaves ; 
But, lo ! methinks the day was brief 
And cloudy ; flower, nor fruit, nor leaf 
1 bring, and yet accepted, free. 
And blest, my Lord, 1 come to thee. 

AVhat matter now for promise lost. 
Through blast of spring or summer rains ! 
What matter now for jjurpose crost, 
For broken hopes and wasted pains; 
What if the olive little yields, 
AVhat if the grape be blighted? Thine 
The corn u])on a thousand fields, 
L'pon a thousand liills the vine. 

Thou lovest still the poor ; 0, blest 
In poverty beloved to be ! 
Less lowly is my choice confessed, 
I love the rich in loving Thee ! 
My spirit bare before thee stands, 
I bring no gift, I ask no sign, 
I come to thee with empty hands. 
The surer to be fllled from thine ! 



ELIZABETH H. WHITTIEE. 



[v. s. 



I8I6-I848.] 



CHARITY. 

The pilgrim and stranger, who, through 

the day, 
Holds over the desert his trackless way, 
AVhere the terrible sands no shade have 

known, 
"No sound of life save his camel's moan, 
Hears, at last, through the mercy of 

Allah to all. 
From his tent-door, at evening, the Bed- 
ouin's call : 
" Whoeverthou art, whose need isgreat. 



For gifts, in his name, of food and rest, 
The tents of Islam of God are blest. 
Thou, who hast faith in the Christ above, 
Shall the Koran teach thee the Law of 

Love ? 
O Christian! — open thy heart and door, — 
Cry, east and west, to the wandering 
j)oor, — 
' ' Whoeverthou art, whose need is great, 
In the name of Christ, the Compas- 
sionate 
And Merciful One, for thee I wait ! " 



THE MEETING WATERS. 

Close beside the meeting waters, 
Long I stood as in a dream. 

Watching how the little river 
Fell into the broader stream. 

Calm and still the mingled current 
Glided to the waiting sea ; 

On its breast serenely pictured 
Floating cloud and skirting tree. 

And I thought, "0 human spiiit! 

Strong and deep and pure and blest, 
Let the stream of my existence 

Blend with thine, and find its rest ! " 

I could die as dies the river. 
In that current deej) and wide; 

I would live as live its waters, 
Flashing from a stronger tide ! 



UNKNOWN. 

WHEN THE GRASS SHALL COVER ME- 

When the grass shall cover me, 
Head to foot where I am lying ; 
When not any wind that blows, 
Summer bloom or winter snows, 
Shall awake me to your sighing: 
Close above me as you pass. 
You will say, "How kind she was," 
You will say, "How true she was," 
When the grass gi-ows over me. 



When the grass shall cover me. 
Hoi den close to earth's wai-m bosom ; 

, ^ AVhile I laugh, or weep,or sing, 

And Merciful One, for thee I wait!" I Nevermore for anything 



In the name of God, the Compassionate 



274 



SONGS OF THPwEE CENTUEIES. 



You will find in blade and blossom, 
Sweet small voices, odorous, 
Tender jileaders of my cause, 
That shall speak me as 1 was, — 

When the grass grows over me. 

When the grass shall cover me ! 
Ah, beloved in my sorrow. 

Very patient can I wait ; 

Knowing that or soon or late, 
There will dawn a cleaier morrow : 

When your heart will moan, "Alas, 

Now 1 know how true she was ; 

Now I know how dear she was," — 
When the grass grows over me. 



UNKNOWN. 



AGAIN. 

0, SWEET and fair ! 0, rich and rare ! 

That day so long ago. 
The autumn sunshine everywhere. 

The heather all aglow. 
The ferns were clad in cloth of gold. 

The waves sang on the shore. 
Such suns will shine, such waves will sing 

Forever evermore. 

0, fit and few ! 0, tried and trae ! 

The friends who met that day. 
Each one the other's spirit knew. 

And so in earnest ))lay 
The hours flew past, until at last 

The twilight kissed the shore. 
We said, "Such days shall come again 

Forever evermore." 

One day again, no cloud of pain 

A shadow o'er us cast ; 
And yet we strove in vain, in vain. 

To conjure up the past ; 
Like, but unlike, — the sun that shone. 

The waves that beat the shore. 
The words we said, the songs we sung. 

Like, — unlike, — evermore. 

For ghosts unseen crept in between, 

And, when our songs flowed free, 
Sang discords in an undertone, 

And marred our harmony. 
"The y)ast is ours, not yours," they said : 

"The waves that beat the shore. 
Though like the same, are not the same, 

0, never, never more ! " 



LUCY LARCOM. 

[U. S. A.] 

A STRIP OF BLUE. 

I DO not own an inch of land. 

But all I see is mine, — 
The orchard and the mowing-fields, 

The lawns and gardens fine. 
The winds my tax-collectors are, 

They bring me tithes divine, — 
Wild scents and subtle essences, 

A tribute rare and free : 
And more magnificent than all, 

JM}' window keeps for me 
A glimpse of blue immensity, — 

A little strip of sea. 

Richer am I than he who owns 

Great fleets and argosies ; 
I have a share in every ship 

Won by the inland breeze 
To loiter on yon airy road 

Above the apple-trees. 
I freight them Avith my untold dreams, 

Each bears my own j)icked crew; 
And nobler cargoes wait for them 

Than ever India knew, — 
My ships that sail into the East 

Across that outlet blue. 

Sometimes they seem like living shapes, — 

The people of the sky, — 
Guests in white raiment coming down 

From Heaven, which is close by : 
I call them by familiar names. 

As one by one draws nigh. 
So wliite, so light, so spirit-like, 

From violet mists they bloom ! 
The aching wastes of the unknown 

Are half reclaimed from gloom. 
Since on life's hospitable sea 

All souls find sailing-room. 

The ocean grows a weariness 

With nothing else in sight ; 
Its east and west, its north and south, 

Spread out from morn to night : 
We miss the warm, caressing shore, 

Its brooding shade and light. 
A part is greater than the whole ; 

By hints are mysteries told ; 
The fringes of eternity, — 

God's sweeping garment-fold, 
In that bright shred of glimmering sea, 

I reach out for, and hold. 



LUCY LAECOM. 



275 



The sails, like flakes of roseate pearl, 

Float ill upon the mist; 
The waves are broken precious stones, - 

Sapphire and amethyst, 
Washed from celestial basement walls 

By suns unsetting kissed. 
Out through the utmost gates of space. 

Past where the gay stars drift. 
To the widening Infinite, my soul 

Glides on, a vessel swift ; 
Yet loses not her anchorage 

In yonder azure rift. 

Hei'e sit I, as a little child : 

The threshold of God's door 
Is that clear band of chrysoprase ; 

Now the vast temple floor, 
The blinding glory of the dome 

1 bow my head belore : 
The universe, God, is home. 

In height or depth, to me ; 
Yet here upon thy footstool green 

Content am I to be ; 
Glad, when is opened to my need 

Some sea-like glimpse of thee. 



BY THE FIRESIDE. 

What is it fades and flickers in the fire. 
Mutters and sighs, and yields reluctant 
breath. 
As if in the red embers some desire, 
Some word prophetic burned, defying 
death ? 

Lords of the forests, stalwart oak and pine. 
Lie down for us in flames of martyr- 
dom : 
A human, household warmth, their death- 
fires shine ; 
Yet fragrant with high memories they 
come ; 

Bringing the mountain-winds that in 
their boughs 
Sang of the toiTent, and the plashy 
edge 
Of storm-swept lakes ; and echoes that 
arouse 
The eagles from a splintered eyrie- 
ledge ; 



And hum of rivulets; smell of riiieniiig 
fruits; ° 

And green leaves that to gold and 
crimson turn. 

What clear Septembers fade out in a 
spark ! 
What rare Octobers drop with eveiy 
coal! 
Within these costly ashes, dumb and 
dark. 
Are hid spring's budding hope, and 
summer's soul. 

Pictures far lovelier smoulder in the fire, 
Visions of friends who walked among 
these ti'ees, 
Whose presence, like the free ail', could 
inspire 
A winged life and boundless syni- 
Ijathies. 

Eyes with a glow like that in the brown 
beech. 
When sunset through its autumn 
beauty shines ; 
Or the blue gentian's look of silent speech. 
To heaven apjjealing as earth's light 
declines ; 

Voices and steps forever fled away 
From the familiar glens, the haunted 
hills,— 
Most pitiful and strange it is to stay 
Witiiout you in a world your lost love 
fills. 

Do you forget us, — under Eden trees. 
Or in full sunshine on the hills of 
God,— 
Who miss you from the shadow and the 
breeze. 
And tints and perfumes of the wood- 
land sod ? 

Dear for your sake the fireside where we 
sit 
Watching these sad, bright pictures 
come and go 
That waning years are with your memory 
lit. 
Is the one lonely comfort that we know. 

And breath of violets sweet about their Is it all memory ? Lo, these forest-boughs 
roots ; I Burst on the hearth into fresh leaf 

And earthy odors of the moss and fern ; I and bloom ; 



276 



SONGS OF TIIKEE CENTUPJES. 



Waft a vague, far-off sweetness through 
the liouse, 
And give close walls the hillside's 
breathing-room. 

A secondlife, more spiritual than the first, 
Thev find, a life won only out of 
"death.— 

sainted souls, within you .still is nursed 
For ns a flame not fed by mortal breath ! 

Unseen, ye bring to us, who love and 
wait, 
Wafts from the heavenly hills, immor- 
tal air ; 
No flood can quench your hearts' 
warmth, or abate ; 
Ye are our gladness, here and every- 
where. 



CHARLOTTE P. HAWES. 

[U. S. A.] 

DOWN THE SLOPE. 

Who knoweth life but questions death 
With guessings of that dimmer day 
When one is slowly lift from clay 
On winged breath ? 

But man advances: far and high 
His forces lly with lightning stroke ; 
Till, worn with years, his vigor broke, 
He turns to die : 

When lo ! he iinds it still a life ; 
New ministration and new trust ; 
Along a happy way that 's just 
Aside from strife. 

And all day following friendly feet 
That lead on bravely to the light, 
As one walks downward, strong and 
bright, 
The slanted street, — 

And feels earth's benedictions wide. 
Alike on forest, lake, or town ; 
Nor marks the slope, — he going down 
The .sunniest side. 

0, bounteous natures everywhere ! 
Perchance at least one need not fear 
A change to cross from your love here 
To God's love there. 



UNKNOWN. 



THE TWO WORLDS. 

Two worlds there are. To one our eyes 

we strain, 
Whose magic joys we shall not see again : 
Bright haze of moi'ning veils its glim- 
mering .shore. 
Ah, truly breathed we there 
Intoxicating air, — 
Glad were our hearts in that sweet 
realm of 
Nevermore. 



The lover there drank her deliciousbreath 
Whose love has yielded since to change 
or death ; 
The mother kissed her child whose 
days are o'er. 
Alas ! too soon have fled 
The irreclaimable dead : 
We see them — -visions strange — amid 
the 
Nevermore. 

The merry song some maiden used to sing. 
The brown, brown hair that once Wiis 
wont to cling 
To temples long clay-cold : to the very 
core 
They strike our weary hearts 
As some vexed memory starts 
From that long faded land, — the 
realm of 
Nevermore. 

It is perpetual summer there. But here 
Sadly we may remember rivers clear, 
And harebells quivering on the mead- 
ow-floor. 
For brighter bells and bluer. 
For tenderer hearts and truer, 
People that happy land — the realm of 
Nevermore. 

F]ion the frontier of this shadowy land 
We, pilgrims of eternal sorrow, stand : 
What realm lies forward, with its hap- 
pier store 
Of forests green and deep, 
Of valleys hushed in sleep, 
And lakes most peaceful ? 'T is the 
land of 
Evermore. 



ADELINE D. T. WHITNEY. — NANCY A. W. PRIEST. 



277 



Very far off its marble cities seem, — 
Very far off — beyond our sensual dream — 
Its woods, unruffled by the wild winds' 
roar : 
Yet does the turbulent surge 
Howl on its very verge. 
One moment, — and we breathe within 
the 
Evermore. 

They whom we loved and lost so long 

ago. 
Dwell in those cities, far from mortal 

woe, 
Haunt those fresh woodlands, whence 
sweet carollings soar. 
Eternal peace have they : 
God wipes their tears away : 
They drink that river of life which 
flows for 
Evermore. 

Thither we hasten through these regions 

dim, 
But lo ! the wide wings of the seraphim 
Shine in the sunset ! On that joyous 
shore 
Our lightened hearts shall know 
The life of long ago : 
The sorrow-burdened past shall fade for 
Evermore. 



ADELINE D. T. WHITNEY. 

[v. S. A.] 

STWLIGHT AND STARLIGHT. 

God sets some souls in shade, alone ; 
They have no daylight of their own : 
Only in lives of liajipier ones 
They see the shine of distant suns. 

God knows. Contentthee withthynight, 
Thygieater heaven hath grander light. 
To-day is close ; the hours are small ; 
Thou sit'st afar, and hast them all. 

Lose the less joy that doth but blind ; 
Eeach forth a larger bliss to find. 
To-day is brief: the inclusive spheres 
Kain raptures of a thousand years. 



'I WILL ABIDE IK THINE HOUSE." 

Among so many, can He care? 
Can special love be everywhere ? 
A myriad homes, —a myriad ways, — 
And God's eye over every place. 

Over; but in? The world is full ; 
A grand omnipotence must rule; 
But is there life that doth abide 
With mine own living, side by side ? 

So many, and so wide abroad : 
Can any heart have all of God? 
From the great spaces, vague and dim, 
May one small household gather Him ? 

I asked : my soul bethought of this : — 
In just that very place of his 
Where He hath put and keepeth you, 
God hath no other thing to do ! 



NANCY A. W. PRIEST, 

[U S. A.] 

OVER THE RIVER. 

Over the river they beckon to me, — 
Loved ones who've crossed to the far- 
ther side ; 
The gleam of their snowy robes I see. 
But their voices are drowned in the 
rushing tide. 
There 's one with ringlets of sunny gold, 
And eyes, the reflection of heaven's 
own blue ; 
He crossed in the twilight, gray and cold. 
And the pale mist hid him from mortal 
view. 
We saw not the angels who met him there; 
The gates of the city we could not see; 
Over the river, over the river. 

My brother stands waiting to welcome 
me ! 

Over the river, the boatman pale 

Carried another, — the household pet: 
Her brown curls waved in thegeiitlegale — 

Darling Minnie ! I see her yet. 
She crossed on her bosom her dimjiled 
hands. 
And fearlessly entered the phantom 
bark ; 



278 



SONGS OF THEEE CENTURIES. 



VTe watched it glide from the silver sands, 
And all our sunshine grew strangely 
dark. 

We know she is safe on the farther side, 
Where all the ransomed and angels be ; 

Over the river, the mystic river, 

My childhood's idol is waiting for me. 

For none return from those quiet shores, 
Who cross with the boatman cold and 
pale ; 
AVe hear the dip of the golden oars. 

And catch a gleam of the snowy sail, — 
And lo ! they have passed from our yearn- 
ing heart ; 
They cross the stream, and a re gone for 
aye ; 
We may not sunder the veil apart, 
That hides from our vision the gates 
of day. 
We only know that their harks no more 
May sail with us o'er life's stormy sea ; 
Yet somewhere, I know, on the unseen 
shore, 
They watch, and beckon, and wait for me. 

And I sit and think, when the sunset's 
gold, 
Is flushing river, and hill, and shore, 
I shall one <lay stan<l by the water cold. 
And list for the sound of the boatman's 
oar; 
I shall watch for a gleam of the flapping 
sail; 
I shall hear the boat as it gains the 
strand ; 
• I shall pass from sight, with the boat- 
man pale. 
To the better shore of the spirit land ; 
I shall know the loved who have gone 
before, — 
And joyfully sweet will the meeting be. 
When over the river, the jjeaceful river. 
The Angel of Death shall carry me. 



ADELAIDE A. PROCTER. 

JUDGE NOT. 

Judge not ; the workings of his brain 
And of his heart thou canst not see ; 

What looks to thy dim eyes a stain, 
In God's pure light may only be 



A scar, brought from some well-won field, 
AVhere thou wouldst only faint and yield. 

The look, the air, that frets thy sight 

May be a token that below 
The soul has closed in deadly fight 

With some infernal fieiy foe. 
Whose glance would scorch thy smiling 

grace, 
And cast thee shuddering on thy face ! 

The fall thou darest to despise, — 
May be the angel's slackened hand 

Has suffered it, that he may rise 
And take a firmer, surer stand ; 

Or, trusting less to earthly things. 

May henceforth learn to use his- wings. 

And judge none lost ; but wait and see, 
With hopeful pity, not disdain ; 

The depth of the abyss may be 
The measure of the height of paiu 

And love and glory that may raise 

This soul to God in after days ! 



FRIEND SORROW. 

Do not cheat thy heart, and tell her 

' ' Grief will pass away ; 
Hope for fairer times in future, 

And forget to-day." 
Tell her, if you will, that Sorrow 

Need not come in vain ; 
Tell her that the lesson taught her 

Far outweighs the pain. 

Cheat her not with the old comfort 

(Soon she will forget); — 
Bitter truth, — alas ! but matter 

Rather for regret. 
Bid her not seek other pleasures, 

Turn to other things ; 
Rather, nurse her caged Sorrow 

Till the captive sings. 

Bid her rather go forth bravely, 

And the stranger greet. 
Not as foe, with shield and buckler, 

But as dear friends meet. 
Bid her with a strong gi-asp hold her 

By the dusky wings. 
And she '11 whisper, low and gently, 

Blessings that she brings. 



THOMAS BUCHANAN EEAD. 



279 



THOMAS BUCHANAN READ. 

[U. S. A.] 

THE CLOSING SCENE. 

Within his sober realm of leafless trees 
The russet year inhaled the dreamy air ; 

Likesome tanned reaper in his hour ofease, 
AVhen all the fields are lying browu 
and bare. 

The gray barns looking from their hazy 

hills 

O'er the dim waters widening in the 

vales, 

Sent down the air a greetin,";: to the mills, 

Ou the dull thunder of alternate flails. 

All sights were mellowed and all sounds 
subdued, 
The hills seemed farther and the streams 
sang low ; 
As in a dream the distant woodman hewed 
His winter log with many a mufiled 
blow. 

The embattled forests, erewhile armed in 
gold, 
Their banners bright with every martial 
hue. 
Now stood, like some sad beaten host of 
old. 
Withdrawn afar in Time's remotest 
blue. 

On slumb'rouR wings the vulture held 
his flight; 
The dove scarce heard its sighing mate's 
complaint ; 
And like a star slow drowning in thelight, 
The village church-vane seemed to pale 
and faint. 

The sentinel-cock upon the hillside crew, 
Crew thiice, and all was stiller than 
before, — 

Silent till some replying warder blew 
His alien horn, and then was heard no 



Where erst the jay, within the elm's tall 
crest. 
Made garnilous trouble round her un- 
fledged young, 



And where the oriole hung her swaying 
nest, 
By every light wind like a censer 
swung: — 

Where sang the noisy masons of the eaves, 
The busy swallows circling ever near, 

Foreboding, as the rustic mind believes, 
An early harvest and a plenteous 
year ; — 



AVhere every bird which charmed the 
vernal feast, 
Shook the sweet slumber from its wings 
at morn. 
To warn the reaper of the rosy east, — 
All now was songless, empty, and for- 
lorn. 

Alone from out the stubble piped the quail, 
And croaked the crow through all the 
dreamy gloom ; 

Alone the pheasant, drummingin the vale, 
Made echo to the distant cottage loom. 

There was no bud, no bloom, upon the 
bowers ; 
The spiders wove their thin shrouds 
night by night ; 
The thistle-down, the only ghost of flow- 
ers. 
Sailed slowly by, passed noiseless out 
of sight. 

Amid all this, in this most cheerless air, 

And wheie the woodbine shed upon 

the porch 

Its crimson leaves, as if the Year stood 

there 

Firing the floor with his inverted torch ; 

Amid all this, the centre of the scene. 
The white-haired matron with monoto- 
nous tread. 
Plied the swift wheel, and with her joy- 
less mien. 
Sat, like a Fate, and watched the flying 
thread. 

She had known Sorrow, — he had walked 
with her. 
Oft supped and broke the bitter ashen 
crust ; 
And in the dead leaves still he heard the 
stir 
Of his black mantle trailing in the 
dust. 



280 



SONGS OF THREE CEXTUEIES. 



AVhile yet her cheek was bright with 
summer bloom, 
Her counti'v summoned and she gave 
lier alf; 
And twice War bowed to her his sable 
plume, — 
Kegave theswoids to rust upon lier wall. 

Eegave the swords, — but not the hand 
that drew 

And struclv for Liberty its dying blow, 
Nor him who, to his sire and country true, 

Fell mid the ranks of the invading foe. 

Long, but not loud, the droning wheel 

went on, 

Like the low murmur of a hive at noon ; 

Long, but not loud, the memory of the gone 

Breathed through her lips a sad and 

tremulous tune. 

At last the thread was snapped : her head 
was bowed ; 
Life dropt the distaff through his hands 
serene ; 
And loving neighbors smoothed her care- 
ful shroud, 
While death and winter closed the 
autumn scene. 



JEAN INGELOW. 



THE HIGH TIDE ON THE COAST OF 
LINCOLNSHIRE. 

(1571.) 

The old ma5'^or climbed the belfry tower, 
The ringers ran by two, by three ; 

" Pull, if ye never pulled before ; 
Good ringers, pull your best, " quoth he. 

" Play uppe, play uppe, Boston bells ! 

Ply ail your changes, all your swells. 

Play uppe ' The Brides of Enderby.' " 

Men say it was a stolen tyde — 

The Lord that sent it, he knows all ; 
But in myne ears doth still abide 

The message that the bells let fall : 
And there was naught of strange, beside 
The Hights of mews and peewits pied 
By millions crouched on the old sea- 
wall. 



I sat and spun within the doore, 

My thread brake off, I raised myne 
eyes ; 
The level sun, like ruddy ore, 

Lay siidcing in the barren skies ; 
And dark against day's golden death 
She moved wliere Lindis wandereth, 
My Sonne's faire wife. Elizabeth. 

"Cu.sha! Cusha! Cu.sha!" calling, 
Ere the early dews were falling, 
Farre away I heard her song. 
" Cusha ! Cusha ! " all along ; 
Where the reedy Lindis tloweth, 

Floweth, fioweth. 
From the meads where melick groweth 
Faintly came her milking song. 

"Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!" calling, 
' ' For the dews will soon be falling ; 
Leave your meadow gi'asses mellow, 

Mellow, mellow ; 
Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow ; 
Comme uppe Whitefoot, come uppe 

Lightfoot, 
Quit the stalks of parsley hollow, 

Hollow, hollow ; 
Come uppe Jetty, rise and follow. 
From the clovers lift your head ; 
Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe 

Lightfoot, 
Come upjie Jetty, rise and follow, 
Jetty, to the milking-shed." 

If it be long, aye, long ago. 

When I beginne to think howe long, 
Againe I hear the Lindis flow, 

Swift as an arrowe, sharp and strong ; 
And all the aire it seemeth me 
Bin full of floating bells (sayth shee), 
That ring the tune of Enderby. 

Alle fresh the level i)asture lay, 
And not a shadowe mote be scene, 

Save where full fj-ve good miles away 
The steeple towei-ed from outthegreene. 

And lo ! the great bell farre and wide 

Was heard in all the country side 

That Saturday at evehtide. 

The swannerds where their sedges are 
Moved on in sunset's golden breath, 
The shepherde lads I heard afarre. 
And my Sonne's wife, Elizabeth ; 
Till floating o'er the grassy sea 
Came downe that kyndly message free, 
The " Brides of Mavis Enderby.' 



JEAX IXGELOW. 



281 



Then some looked uppe into the sky, 
•And all along where Lindis Hows 

To where the goodly vessels lie, 

And where the lordly steeple shows. 

They sayde, "And why should this 
thing be. 

What danger lowers hy land or sea ? 

They ring the tune of Enderby ! 

" For evil news from Mablethorpe, 
Of ])yiate galleys warping down ; 

For shippes ashore beyond the seorpe, 
They have not spared to wake the 
towne ; 

But while the west bin red to see. 



And storms be none, and ])yrates flee, 
• The Brides of Enderby ' ? ' 



A\-hy 



I looked without, and lo ! my sonne 
Came riding dowue with might and 
main. 

He raised a shout as he drew on, 
Till all the welkin rang again, 

"Elizabeth! Elizabeth!" 

(A sweeter woman ne'er drew breath 

Than my Sonne's wife, Elizabeth.) 

"The olde sea-wall (he cried) is downe, 
The rising tide comes on apace, 

And boats adrift in j'onder towne 
Go sailing uppe the market-place." 

He shook as one that looks on death : 

"God save you, mother!" straight he 
saith ; 

"Where is my wife, Elizabeth?" 

*'Good Sonne, where Lindis winds away 
"With her two bairns 1 marked her 
long ; 
And ere yon bells beganne to ]ilay 
Afar I heard her milking song." 
He looked across the grassy sea, 
To light, to left, "Ho Enderby!" 
They rang, "The Brides of Enderby !" 

With that he ciied and beat his breast ; 

For lo ' along the river's bed 
A mighty eygre reared his crest. 

And uppe the Lindis raging sped. 
It swept with thunderous noise, loud; 
Shaped like a curling snow-white cloud. 
Or like a demon in a shroud. 

And rearing Lindis backward pressed. 
Shook all her trembling bankes amaine ; 

Then madly at the eygre's breast 

Flung ui)pe her weltering walls again. 



Then bankes came downe with niiu and 

rout, — 
Then beaten foam flew round about, — 
Then all the mighty floods were out. 

So farre, so fast the eygre drave, 

T-'he heart had hardly time to beat. 
Before a shallow seething wave 

Sobbed in the grasses at our feet : 
The feet had hardly time to flee 
Before it brake against the knee. 
And all the world was in the sea. 

Upon the roofe we sate that night. 
The noise of bells went sweeping by : 

I marked the lofty beacon-light 

Stream from the church-tower, red and 
high,— 

A lurid mark and dread to see ; 

And awesome bells they M-ere to mee. 

That in the dark rang "Enderby." 

They rang the sailor-lads to guide 

Fi-om roofe to roofe who fearless rowed ; 

And I — my sonne was at my side, 
And yet the ruddy beacon glowed : 

And yet he moaned beneath his breath, 

"0 come in life, or come in death ! 

lost ! my love, Elizabeth." 

And didst thou visit him no more? 

Thou didst, thou didst, my daughter 
deare ; 
The waters laid thee at his doore. 

Ere yet the early dawn was clear. 
The pretty bairns in fast embrace, 
The lifted sun shone on thy face, 
Downe drifted to thy dwelling-place. 

That flow strewed wrecks about the grass, 
That ebbe swept out the flocks to sea ; 

A fatal ebbe and flow, alas ! 

To manye more than myne and me : 

But each will mourn his own (she saith). 

And sweeter woman ne'er drew breath 

Than my Sonne's wife, Elizabeth. 

I shall never hear her more 
By the reedy Lindis shore, 
"Cusha, Cusha, Cusha!" calling. 
Ere the early dews be falling ; 
I shall never hear her song, 
"Cusha, Cusha!" all along. 
Where the sunny Lindis floweth, 

Goeth, floweth ; 
From the meads where melick groweth. 



282 



SONGS OF THEEE CENTURIES. 



"When the. water winding down 
Onward ilovveth to the town. 

I shall never see her more 

"Where the reeds and rushes quiver, 

Shiver, quiver; 
Stand beside the sobbing river, 
Sobliing, throbbing, in its falling, 
To the sandy lonesome shore : 
I shall never hear her calling, 
"Leave your meadow grasses mellow; 

Mellow, mellow ; 
Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow ; 
Come" uppe Whitefoot, come uppc Light- 
foot; 
Quit your pipes of parsley hollow, 

Hollow, hollow ; 
Come uppe Lightfoot, rise and follow; 

Lightfoot, Whitefoot; 
From your clovers lift the head ; 
Come uppe Jetty, follow, follow, 
Jetty, to the milking-shed." 



SEVEN TIMES FOUR. 

MATERNITV. 

Heigh-ho ! daisies and buttercups ! 
Fair yellow daffodils, stately and tall ! 
When the wind wakes how they rock in 

the grasses, 
And dance with the cuckoo-buds slender 

and small ! 
Here's two bonny boys, and here's 

mother's own lasses. 
Eager to gather thenr all. 

Heigh-ho ! daisies and buttercups ! 

ilother shall thread them a daisy chain ; 

Sing them a song of the pretty hedge- 
sparrow. 

That loved her brown little ones, loved 
them full fain ; 

Sing, "Heart, thou art wide though the 
house be but narrow," 
Sing once, and sing it again. 

Heigh-ho ! daisies and buttercups ! 
Sweet wagging cowslips, they bend and 

they bow ; ^ 
A ship sails afar over warm ocean waters, 
And haply one musing doth stand at her 

prow. 
bonny brown sons, and sweet little 

daughters, 
Maybe he thinks on you now. 



Heigh-ho ! daisies and buttercups ! 

Fair yellow daffodils stately and tall ! 

A sunshiny woiid full of laughter and 
leisure. 

And fresh hearts unconscious of sorrow 
and thrall ! 

Send down on their pleasure smiles pass- 
ing its measure, 
God that is over us all ! 



SEATEN TIMES SEVEN. 

LONGING FOR HOME. 

A SONG of a boat : — 

There was once a boat on a billow : 

Lightly she rocked to her port remote. 

And the foam was white in her wake like 

snow. 
And her frail mast bowed when the breeze 
would blow. 
And bent like a wand of willow. 

I shaded mine eyes one day when a boat 

Went curtsying over the billow, 
1 marked her course till, a dancing mote, 
She faded out on the moonlit foam. 
And I stayed behind in the dear-loved 
home ; 
And my thoughts all day were about the 
boat. 
And my dreams upon the pillow. 

I pray you hear my song of a boat, 

For it is but short : — 
My boat you shall find none fairer afloat, 

In river or port. 
Long I looked out for the lad she bore, 



On the open desolate sea, 
And I think he sailed to the 
shore, 
For he came not back to me - 



i^enly 



Ah me ! 



A song of a nest : — 

There was once a nest in a hollow ; 

Down in the mosses and knot-grass 

pressed, 
Soft and warm and full to the brim. 
Vetches leaned over it purple and dim, 
With buttercup-buds to follow. 

I pray you hear my song of a nest, 

For it is not long : 
You shall never light in a summer quest 

The bushes among, — 



THOMAS BAILEY ALDEICH. 



283 



Shall never light on a prouder sitter, 
A faii'er nestful, nor ever know 

A softer sound than their tender twitter, 
That wind-like did come and go. 

I had a nestful once of my own. 

Ah, hapjjy, happy I ! 
Eight dearly 1 loved them ; but when 
they were grown 

They spread out their wings to fly. 
0, one after one they flew away, 

Far up to the heavenly blue. 
To the better country, the upper day, 

And — I wish I was going too. 

I pray you, what is the nest to me, 

My empty nest? 
And what is the shore where I stood to 
see 

My boat sail down to the west ? 
Can I call that home where I anchor yet. 

Though my good man has sailed ? 
Can I call tliat home where my nest was 
set, 

Now all its hope hath failed ? 

Is ay, but the port where my sailor went, 
And the land where my nestlings be : 
There is the home where my thoughts 
are sent. 
The only home for me — 

Ah me! 



THOMAS BAILEY ALDEICH. 



[u. 



BEFORE THE RAIN. 

"We knew it would rain, for all the morn, 
A spirit on slender ropes of mist 

Was lowering its golden buckets down 
Into the vapory amethyst 

Of marshes and swamps and dismal fens, — 
Scoopingthe dew that layin the flowers. 

Dipping the jewels out of the sea, 
To sprinkle them over the land in 
showers. 

"We knew it would rain, for the poplars 
showed 
The white of their leaves, the amber 
grain 
Shrunk in the wind, — and the lightning 
now 
Is tangled in tremulous skeins of rain ! 



AFTER THE RAIN. 

The rain has ceased, and in my room 
The sunshine pours an airy flood ; 
And on the church's dizzy vane 
The ancient Cross is bathed in blood. 



From out the dripping ivy-leaves, 
Antiquely carven, gray and high, 
A dormer, facing westward, looks 
Upon the village like an eye : 

And now it glimmers in the sun, 
A square of gold, a disk, a speck : 
And in the belfry sits a Dove 
With purple ripjjles on her neck. 



PISCATAQUA RIVER. 

Thou singest by the gleaming isles, 
By woods, and fields of corn, 

Thou singest, and the heaven smiles 
Upon my birthday morn. 

But I within a city, I, 

So full of vague unrest. 
Would almost give my life to lie 

An hour ujjon thy breast ! 

To let the wherry listless go, 
And, wrapt in dreamy joy. 

Dip, and surge idly to and fro, 
Like the red harbor-buoy ; 

To sit in happy indolence, 

To rest upon the oars. 
And catch the heavy earthy scents 

That blow from summer shores ; 



To see the rounded sun go down, 

And with its parting fires 
Light up the windows of the town 

And burn the tapering spires ; 

And then to hear the muffled tolls 
From steeples slim and white. 

And watch, among the Isles of Shoals, 
The Beacon's orange light. 

Eiver ! flowing to the main 

Through woods, and fields of corn. 



284 



SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 



longing and my pain 



Hear tliou my longing and n 
This sunny birtliday morn 

And take tliis song which sorrow shapes 

To music like thine own, 
And sing it to the cliffs and capes 

And crags where I am known ! 



ROBERT BUCHANAN. 

THE GREEN GNOME. 

A MELODY. 

Ring, sing! ring, sing! pleasant Sabbath 
bells ! 

Chime, rhyme ! chime, rhyme I through 
dales and dells I 

Rhyme, ring I chime, sing ! pleasant Sab- 
bath bells I 

Chime, sing! rhyme, ring! over fields 
and tells ! 



And I galloped and I galloped on my 

palfrey white as milk. 
My robe was of the sea-green woof, my 

serk was of the silk ; 
My hair was golden-yellow, and it floated 

to my shoe ; 
My eyes were like two harebells bathed 

in little drops of dew ; 
My palfrey, never stopping, made a music 

sweetly blent 
With the leaves of autumn dropping all 

around me as I went; 
And I heard the bells, grown fainter, far 

behind me peal and play, 
Fainter, fainter, fainter, till they seemed 

to die away ; 
And beside a silver runnel, on a little 

heap of sand, 
I saw the green gnome sitting, with his 

cheek upon his hand. 
Then he started up to see me, and he ran 

with a cry and bound. 
And drew me from my palfrey white and 

set me on the ground. 
crimson, crimson were his locks, his 

face was green to see. 
But he cried, "0 light-haired lassie, you 

are bound to marry me !" 
He clasped me round the middle small, 

he kissed me on the cheek, 



He kissed me once, he kissed me twice, 
I could not stir or speak ; 

He kissed me twice, he kissed me thrice ; 
but when he kissed again, 

I called aloud upon the name of Him 
who died for men. 

Sing, sing ! ring, ring ! pleasant Sabbath 
bells! 

Chime, rhyme ! chime, rhyme ! through 
dales and dells ! 

Rhyme, ring ! chime, sing ! pleasant Sab- 
bath bells ! 

Chime, sing ! rhyme, ring ! over fields 
and fells ! 

faintly, faintly, faintly, calling men and 

maids to pray, 
So faintly, faintly, faintly rang the bells 

far away ; 
And as I named the Blessed Name, as in 

our need we can. 
The ugly green gnome became a tall and 

comely man : 
His hands were white, his beard was gold, 

his eyes were black as sloes. 
His tunic was of .scarlet woof, and silken 

were his hose ; 
A pensive light from faeryland still lin- 
gered on his cheek. 
His voice was like the running brook 

when he began to speak : 
' ' 0, you have cast away the charm my 

step-dame put on me. 
Seven years have I dwelt in Faeryland, 

and you have set me free. 
0, I will mount thy palfrey white, and 

ride to kirk with thee. 
And, by those dewy little eyes, we twain 

will wedded be!" 

Back we galloped, never stopping, he 
before and I behind. 

And the autumn leaves were dropping, 
red and yellow in the wind ; 

And the sun was shining cleai'er, and my 
heart was high and proud. 

As nearer, nearer, nearer rang the kirk- 
bells sweet and loud, . 

And we saw the kirk, before us, as we 
trotted down the fells. 

And nearer, clearer, o'er us, rang the 
welcome of the bells. 

Ring, sing ! ring, sing ! pleasant Sabbath 

bells ! 
Chime, rhyme ! chime, rhyme ! through 

dales and dells ! 



E. C. STEDMAX. 



285 



Rhjnne, rina; ! chime, sing ! pleasant Sab- 
bath bells ! 

Chime, sing! rhyme, ring! over fields 
and fells ! 



E. C. STEDMAN. 



[U. S. A.] 



THE DOORSTEP. 



The conference-meeting through at last, 
We boys around tlie vestry waited 

To see the girls come tripping past, 
Like snowbirds willing to be mated. 

Not braver he that leajis the wall 
By level niusket-Hashes litteu. 

Than 1, who stepped before them all, 
Who longed to see me get the mitten. 

But no ; she blushed, and took my arm ! 

We let the old folks have the highway, 
And started toward the Maple Farm 

Along a kind of lover's by-way. 

I can't remember what we said, 

'T was nothing worth a song or story. 

Yet that rude jiath by which we sped 
Seemed all transibrmed, and in a glory. 

The snow was crisp beneath our feet. 
The moon was full, the fields were 
gleaming ; 
By hood and tippet sheltered sweet. 
Her face with youth and health was 
beaming. 

The little hand outside her muff— 
sculptor, if you could butmouldit I — 

So lightly touched my jacket-cuff, 
To keep it warm I had to hold it. 

To have her with me there alone, — 
'T was love and fear and triumph 
blended. 

At last we reached the foot-worn stone 
Where that delicious journey ended. 

The old folks, too, were almost home ; 

Her dimpled hand the latches fingered. 
We heard the voices nearer come, 

Yet on the doorstep still we lingered. 



She shook her ringlets from her hood. 
And with a "Thank you, Ned," dis- 
sembled ; 

But yet I knew she understood 

With what a daring wish 1 trembled. 

A cloud passed kindly overhead. 

The moon was slyly peeping through it. 

Yet hid its face, as if it said, 

"Come, now or never ! do it ! do it!" 

My lips till then had only known 
The kiss of mother and of sister. 

But somehow, full upon her own 

Sweet, rosy, darling mouth, — 1 kissed 

her ! 

Perhaps 't was boyish love, yet still, 

listless woman, weary lover! 

To feel once more that fresh, wild thrill 

1 'd give — But who can live youth 

over ? 



PAN IN WALL STREET. 

A. D. 1867. 

Just where the Treasury's marble front 

Looks over Wall Street's mingled na- 
tions, — 
Where Jews and Gentiles most are wont 

To throng for trade and last quota- 
tions, — 
Where, hour by hour, the rates of gold 

Outrival, in the ears of people, 
The quarter-chimes, serenely tolled 

From Trinity's undaunted steeple ; — 

Even there I heard a strange, wild strain 

Sound high above the modern clamor, 
Above the cries of greed and gain, 

The curbstone war, the auction's ham- 
mer, — 
And swift, on Music's misty ways, 

it led, from all this strife for millions, 
To ancient, sweet-do-nothing days 

Among the kirtle-robed Sicilians. 

And as it stilled the multitude. 

And yet more joyous rose, and shriller, 
I saw the minstrel where he stood 

At ease against a Doric pillar : 
One hand a droning 07-gan [dayed, 

The other held a"Pan's-]iipe (fashioned 
Like those of old) to lips that made 

The reeds give out that strain impas- 
sioned. 



286 



SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 



'T was Pan himself had wandered here 

A-strolling through this sordid city, 
And piping to the civic ear 

The prelude of some pastoral ditty ! 
The demigod had crossed the seas, — 

From haunts of shepherd, nympli, and 
satyr, 
And Syracusan times, — to these 

Far shores and twenty centuries later. 

A ragged cap was on his head : 

But — hidden thus — there was no 
doubting 
That, all with crispy locks o'erspread. 
His gnarled horns were somewhere 
sprouting ; 
His club-feet, cased in rusty shoes, 
Were crossed, as on some frieze you 
see them. 
And trousers, patched of divers hues. 
Concealed his crooked shanks beneath 
them. 

He filled the quivering reeds with sound. 

And o'er his mouth their changes 

shifted. 

And with his goat's-eyes looked around 

Where'er the passing current drifted ; 

And soon, as on Trinacrian hills 

The nymphs and herdsmen ran to hear 
him. 
Even now the tradesmen from their tills, 
With clerks and j)orters, crowded near 
him. 

The bulls and bears together drew 

From Jauncey Court and New Street 
Alley, 
As erst, if pastorals be true. 

Came beasts from every wooded valley ; 
The random passers stayed to list, — 

A boxer -Egon, rougli and merry, — 
A Broadway Daphnis, on his tryst 

With Nais at the Brooklyn Ferry. 

A one-eyed Cyclops halted long 

In tattered cloak of army pattern. 
And Galatea joined the throng, — 

A blowsy, apple-vending slattern ; 
While old Silenus staggered out 

From some new-fangled lunch-house 
handy, 
And bade the piper, with a shout, 

To strike up Yankee Doodle Dandy ! 

A newsboy and a peanut-girl 

Like little Fauns began to caper : 



His hair was all in tangled curl. 

Her tawny legs were bare and taper; 

And still the gathering larger grew, 
Andgave its pence and crowded nigher, 

While aye the shepherd-minstrel blew 
His pipe, and struck the gamut higher. 

heart of Nature, beating still 

With throbs her vernal passion taught 
her, — 
Even here, as on the vine-clad hill, 

Or by the Arethusan water ! 
New forms may fold the speech, new lands 

Arise within these ocean-portals. 
But Music waves eternal wands, — 

Enchantress of the souls of mortals ! 

So thought I, — but among us trod 

A man in blue, with legal baton. 
And scoffed the vagrant demigod. 

And pushed him from the step 1 sat on. 
Doubting I mused upon the cry, 

"Great Pan is dead!" — and all the 
people 
Went on their ways : — and clear and high 

The quarter sounded from the steeple. 



ALGERNON CHARLES 
SWINBURNE. 

A MATCH. 

If love -were -what the rose is, 
And I were like the leaf. 

Our lives would grow together 

In sad or singing weather. 

Blown fields or flowerful closes. 
Green pleasure or gray grief; 

If love were what the rose is. 
And I were like the leaf. 

If I were what the words are. 

And love were like the tune. 
With double sound and single 
Delight our lips would mingle. 
With kisses glad as birds are 

That get sweet rain at noon ; 
If I were what the words are 
And love were like the tune. 

If you were life, my darling. 

And I your love were death, 
We 'd shine and snow together 
Ere March made sweet the weather 



E. H. STODDARD. — 


J. T. TROWBRIDGE. 287 


With daffodil and starling 


LANDWARD. 


And hours of fruitful breath ; 




If you were life, my darling, 


The sky is thick upon the sea. 


And I your love were death. 


The sea is sown with rain. 




And in the passing gusts we hear 


If you were thrall to sorrow, 
And 1 were page to joy, 


The clanging of the crane. 


"\Ve 'd play for lives and seasons. 
With loving looks and treasons, 


The cranes are flying to the south ; 
We cut the northern foam : 


And tears of night and morrow. 
And laughs of maid and boy ; 


The dreary land they leave behind 
Must be our future home. 


If you were thrall to sorrow. 




And 1 were page to joy. 


Its barren shores are long and dark. 




And gray its autumn sky ; 


If you were April's lady, 


But better these than this gray sea, 


And I were lord in May, 


If but to land — and die ! 


We 'd throw with leaves for hours. 




And draw for days with flowers. 





Till day like night were shady. 


■ 


And night were bright like day ; 
If you were April's lady, 
And I were lord in May. 


NOVEMBER. 




The wild November comes at last 




Beneath a veil of rain ; 


If you were queen of pleasure, 


The night-wind blows its folds aside. 


And I were king of pain, 


Her face is full of pain. 


We 'd hunt down love together. 




Pluck out his flying-feather, 


The latest of her race, she takes 


And teach his feet a measure. 


The Autumn's vacant throne : 


And find his mouth a rein ; 


She has but one short moon to live, 


If you were queen of pleasure. 


And she must live alone. 


And I were king of pain. 






A barren realm of withered fields : 




Bleak woods of fallen leaves : 






The palest morns that ever dawned : 


K H. STODDARD. 


The dreariest of eves : 


[U. S. A.] 


It is no wonder that she comes. 




Poor month ! with tears of pain : 


NEVER AGAIN. 


For what can one so hopeless do 


Therk are gains for all our losses. 


But weep, and weep again ! 


There are balms for all our pain : 
But when youth, the dream, departs. 






It takes something from our hearts, 




And it never comes again. 


J. T. TROWBRIDGE. 


We are stronger, and are better. 
Under manhood's sterner reign : 


[U. S. A.] 




Still we feel that something sw-eet 


AT SEA. 


Followed youth, with flying feet. 




And will never come again. 


THEnight was made for cooling shade. 




For silence, and for sleep ; 


Something beautiful is vanished. 


And when I was a child, I laid 


And we sigh for it in vain : 


My hands upon my breast, and prayed. 


We seek it everywhere, 


And sank to slumbers deep. 


On the earth and in the air. 


Childlike, as then, I lie to-night. 


But it never comes again ! 


And watch my lonely cabin-light. 



288 



SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 



Each movement of the swaying lamp 

Shows how the vessel reels, 
And o'er her deck the billows tramp, 
And all her timbers strain and cramp 

With every shock she feels ; 
It starts and shudders, while it bums, 
And in its hinged socket turns. 

Now swinging slow, and slanting low. 

It almost level lies : 
And yet I know, while to and fro 
I watch the seeming pendule go 

With restless fall and rise. 
The steady shaft is still upright, 
Poising its little globe of light. 

hand of God ! lamp of peace ! 
promise of my soul ! 

Though weak and tossed, and ill at ease 
Amid the roar of smiting seas, — 
The ship's convulsive roll, — 

1 own, with love and tender awe, 
Yon perfect type of faith and law. 

A heavenly trast my spirit calms, — 
My soul is filled with liglit ; 

The ocean sings his solemn psalms; 

The wild winds chant ; I cross my palms ; 
Happj^, as if to-night, 

Under the cottage roof again, 

1 heard the soothing summer rain. 



ELIZABETH AKERS ALLEN 
(FLORENCE PERCY). 

[U. S. A.] 

IN THE DEFENCES. 

AT WASHINGTON. 

Along the ramparts which surround the 
town 
I walk with evening, marking all the 
while 
How night and autumn, closing softly 
down, 
Leave on the land a blessing and a 
smile. 

In the broad streets the sounds of tumult 
cease. 
The gorgeous sunset reddens roof and 
spire, 



The city sinks to quietude and peace, 
Sleeping, like Saturn, in a ring of fire ; 

Circled with forts, whose grim and threat- 
ening walls 
Frown black with cannon, whose abated 
breath 
Waits the command to send the fatal balls 
Upon theii- errands of dismay and death. 

And see, directing, guiding, silently 
Flash from afar the mystic signal-lights. 

As gleamed the fiery pillar in the sky 
Leading by night the wandering Israel- 
ites. 

The earthworks, draped with summer 
weeds and vines. 
The rifle-pits, half hid with tangled 
briers. 
But wait their time ; for see, along the 
lines 
Else the faint smokes of lonesome 
picket-fires, 

Where sturdy sentinels on silent beat 
Cheat the long hours of wakeful lone- 
liness 
With thoughts of home, and faces dear 
and sweet, 
And, on the edge of danger, dream of 
bliss. 

Yet at a word, how wild and fierce a change 

Would rend and startle all the earth 

and skies 

With blinding glare, and noises dread 

and strange. 

And shrieks, and shouts, and deathly 



The wide-mouthed guns would war, and 
hissing shells 
Would pierce the shuddering sky with 
fiery thrills, 
The battle rage and roll in thunderous 
swells. 
And war's fierce anguish shake the 
solid hills. 

But now how tranquilly the golden gloom 
Creeps up the gorgeous forest -si opes, 
and flows 
Down valleys blue with fringy aster- 
bloom, — 
An atmosphere of safety and repose. 



EDNA DEAN PKOCTOE. 



289 



Against the sunset lie the darkeninghills, 
Mushroomed with tents, the sudden 
growth of war ; 
The frosty autumn air, that blights and 
chills, 
Yet brings its own full recompense 
therefor ; 

Eich colors light the leafy solitudes, 

And far and near the gazer's eyes behold 
The oak's deep scarlet, warming all the 
woods, 
And spendthrift maples scattering 
their gold. 

The pale beech shivers with prophetic 
woe. 
The towering chestnut ranks stand 
blanched and thinned, 
Yet still the fearless sumach dares the foe, 
And waves its bloody guidons in the 
wind. 

Where mellow haze the hill's sharp out- 
line dims, 

Bare elms, like sentinels, watch silently, 
The delicate tracer}^ of their slender limbs 

Pencilled in purple on the saffron sky. 

Content and quietude and plenty seem 
Blessing the place, and sanctifying all ; 

And hark ! how pleasantly a hidden stream 
Sweetens the silence with its silver fall ! 

The failing grasshopper chirps faint and 
shrill, 
The cricket calls, in massy covert hid. 
Cheery and loud, as stoutly answering 
still 
The soft persistence of the katydid. 

"With dead moths tangled in its blighted 
bloom. 
The golden-rod swings lonesome on its 
throne, 
Forgotof bees ; and in thethicket'sgloom. 
The last belated peewee cries alone. 

The hum of voices, and the careless laugh 
Of cheerful talkers, fall upon the ear ; 

The ilag flaps listlessly adown its staff ; 
And still the katj'did pipes loud and 
near. 

And now from far the bugle's mellow 
throat 
Pours out, in rippling flow, its silver 
tide; 

19 



And up the listening hills the echoes float 
Faint and more faint and sweetly 
multiplied. 

Peace reigns ; not now a soft-eyed nymph 
that sleeps 
Unvexed by dreams of strife or con- 
queror. 
But Power, that, open-eyed and watchful, 
kee[)s 
Unwearied vigil on the brink of war. 

Night falls ; in silence sleep the patriot 
bands ; 

The tireless cricket yet repeats its tune, 
And the still figure of the sentry stands 

In black relief against the low full 



EDNA DEAN PROCTOE. 

[v. S. A.] 

OtTR HEROES. 

The winds that once the Argo bore 
Have died by Neptune's ruined shrines. 
And her hull is the drift of the deep sea 

floor. 
Though shaped of Pelion's tallest pines. 
You may seek her crew in every isle. 
Fair in the foam of ^gean seas. 
But out of their sleep no charm can wile 
Jason and Orpheus and Hercules. 

And Priam's voice is heard no more 
By windy Ilium's sea-built walls; 
From the washing wave and the lonely 

shore 
No wail goes up as Hector falls. 
On Ida's mount is the shining snow, 
But Jove has gone from its brow away. 
And red on the plain the popjues grow 
Where Greek and Trojan fought that day. 

Mother Earth ! Are thy heroes dead ? 
Do they thrill the soul of the years no 

more ? 
Are the gleaming snows and the poppies 

red 
All that is left of the brave of yore ? 
Are there none to fight as Theseus fought, 
Far in the young world's misty dawn ? 
Or teachasthegray-haired Nestor taught, 
Mother Earth ! Are thy heroes gone ? 



290 



SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 



Gone? — in a nobler form they rise ; 
Dead ? — wemayclasptheir hands in ours, 
And catch the light of their glorious eyes, 
And wreathe their brows with immortal 

flowers. 
Wherever a noble deed is done, 
There are the souls of our heroes stirred ; 
Wherever a field for truth is won. 
There are our heroes' voices heard. 

Their armor rings on a fairer field 

Than Greek or Trojan ever trod. 

For Freedom's sword is the blade they 

wield, 
And the light above them the smile of 

God! 
So, in his isle of calm delight, 
Jason may dream the years away. 
But the heroes live, and the skies are 

bright. 
And the world is a braver world to-day. 



GEORGE H. BOKER. 

[U. S. A.] 

DIRGE FOR A SOLDIER. 

Closk his eyes ; his work is done ! 

What to him is friend or foeman, 
Eise of moon, or set of sun, 

Hand of man, or kiss of woman ? 
Lay him low, lay him low, 
In the clover or the snow ! 
What cares he ? he cannot know : 
Lay him low ! 

As man may, he fought his fight, 

Proved his truth by his endeavor; 
Let him sleep in solemn night. 
Sleep forever and forever. 
Lay him low, lay him low, 
In the clover or the snow ! 
What cares he ? he cannot know : 
Lay him low ! 

Fold him in his country's stars. 

Roll the drum and fire the volley ! 
What to him are all our wars. 

What but death-bemocking folly? 
Lay him low, lay him low. 
In the clover or the snow ! 
What cares he ? he cannot know : 
Lay him low ! 



Leave him to God's watching eye, 

Trust him to the hand that made him. 
Mortal love weeps idly by : 

God alone has power to aid him. 
Lay him low, lay him low. 
In the clover or the snow ! 
What cares he? he cannot know: 
Lay him low ! 



LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON. 

[U. S. A.] 

THE HOUSE IN THE MEADOW. 

It stands in a sunny meadow. 
The house so mossy and brown. 

With its cumbrous old stone chimneys, 
And the gray roof sloping down. 

Thetreesfold theirgreenarms round it, 

The trees a century old ; 
And the winds go chanting through 
them. 

And the sunbeams drop their gold. 

The cowslips spring in the marshes, 

The roses bloom on the hill. 
And beside the brook in the pasture 

The herds go feeding at will. 

Within, in the wide old kitchin, 

The old folks sit in the sun, 
That creeps through the sheltering wood- 
bine. 

Till the day is almost done. 

Their children have gone and left them ; 

They sit in the sun alone ! 
And the old wife's ears are failing 

As she harks to the well-known tone 

That won her heart in her girlhood, 
That has soothed her in many a care, 

And praises her now for the brightness 
Her old face used to wear. 

She thinks again of her bridal, — 
How, dressed in her robe of white, 

She stood by her gay young lover 
In the morning's rosy light. 

0, the morning is rosy as ever. 

But the rose from her cheek is fled : 



NORA PERRY. 



291 



And the sunshine still is golden, 
But it falls on a silvered head. 

And the girlhood dreams, once vanished, 
Come hack in her winter-time, 

Till her feeble pulses tremble 

With the thrill of spring-time's prime. 

And looking forth from the window, 
She thinks how the trees have grown 

Since, clad in her bridal whiteness, 
She crossed the old door-stone. 

Though dimmed her eyes' bright azure, 
And dimmed her hair's young gold, 

The love in her giiihood plighted 
Has never grown dim or old. 

They sat in peace in the sunshine 
Till the day was almost done. 

And then, at its close, an angel 
Stole over the threshold stone. 

He folded their hands together, — 
He touched their ej-elids with balm. 

And their last breath floated outward, 
Like the close of a solemn psalm ! 

Like a bridal pair they traversed 

The unseen, mystical road 
That leads to the Beautiful Cit}', 

Whose builder and maker is God. 

Perhaps in that miracle country 
They will give her lost youth back. 

And tiie flowers of the vanished spring- 
time 
Will bloom in the spirit's track. 

One draught from the living waters 
Shall call back his manhood's prime ; 

And eternal years shall measure 
The love that outlasted time. 

But the shapes that they left behind them. 
The wrinkles and silver hair, — 

Made holy to us by the kisses 
The angel had printed there, — 

We will hide away 'neath the willows, 
When the day is low in the west, 

Where the sunbeams cannot find them. 
Nor the winds disturb their rest. 

And we '11 suffer no telltale tombstone, 
AVith its age and date, to I'ise 

O'er the two who are old no longer. 
In the Father's house in the skies. 



THE LATE SPRING. 



She stood alone amidst the April fields, — 
Brown, sodden fields, all desolate and 
bare. 
"The spring is late," she said, "the 
faithless spring, 
That should have come to make the 
meadows fair. 

" Their sweet South left too soon, among 
the trees 
The birds, bewildered, flutter to and 
fro; 
For them no green boughs wait, — their 
memories 
Of last year's April had deceived them 
so." 

She watched the homeless birds, the 
slow, sad spring. 
The barren fields, and shivering, naked 
trees. 
"Thus God has dealt with me, his child," 
she said ; 
"I wait my spring-time, and am cold 
like these. 

" To them will come the fulness of their 
time ; 
Their spring, though late, will make 
the meadows fair; 
Shall L who wait like them, like them 
be blessed ? 
I am His own, — doth not my Father 
care ?" 



NORA PERRY. 

[v. S. A.] 

IN JUNE. 

So sweet, so sweet the roses in their 
blowing. 
So sweet the daff'odils, so fair to see ; 
So blithe and gay the humming-bird 
agoing 
From flower to flower, a hunting with 
the bee. 

So sweet, so sweet the calling of the 
thrushes. 
The calling, cooing, wooing, every- 
where : 



292 



SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES, 



So sweet the water's song through reeds 
and rushes, 
The plover's piping note, now here, 
now there. 

So sweet, so sweet from off the fields of 
clover, 
The west-wind blowing, blowing up 
the hill; 
So sweet, so sweet with news of some 
one's lover, 
Fleet footsteps, ringing nearer, nearer 
still. 

So near, so near, now listen, listen, 
thrushes ; 
Now plover, blackbird, cease, and let 
me hear ; 
And, water, hush your song through reeds 
and rushes. 
That I may know whose lover cometh 
near. 

So loud, so loud the thrushes kept their 
calling. 
Plover or blackbird never heeding me ; 
So loud the mill-stream too kept fretting, 
falling. 
O'er bar and bank, in brawling, bois- 
terous glee. 

So loud, so loud ; yet blackbird, thrush, 
nor plover, 
Nor noisy mill-stream, in its fret and 
fall, 
Could drown the voice, the low voice of 
my lover, 
My lover calling through the thrushes' 
call. 

"Come down, come down!" he called, 
and straight the thrushes 
From mate to mate sang all at once, 
"Come down!" 
And while the water laughed through 
reeds and rushes. 
The blackbird chirped, the plover 
piped, "Come down!" 

Then down and off, and through the 
fields of clover, 
I followed, followed, at my lover's call ; 
Listening no more to blackbird, thrush, 
or plover. 
The water's laugh, the mill-stream's 
fret and fall. 



AFTER THE BALL. 

Tjiey sat and combed their beautiful hair. 
Their long, bright tresses, one by one, 

As they laughed and talked iu the cham- 
ber there. 
After the revel was done. 

Idly they talked of waltz and quadrille, 
Idly they laughed, like other girls, 

Who over the fire, when all is still, 
Comb out their braids and curls. 

Robe of satin and Brussels lace. 
Knots of flowers and ribbons, too, 

Scattered about in every place, 
For the revel is through. 

And Maud and Madge in robes of white, 
Theprettiestnightgownsunderthesun, 

Stockingless, slipperless, sit in the night. 
For the revel is done, — 

Sit and comb their beautiful hair, 
Those wonderful waves of brown and 
gold, 

Till the fire is out in the chamber there, 
And the little bare feet are cold. 

Then out of the gathering winter chill. 
All out of the bitter St. Agnes weather. 

While the fire is out and the house is still, 
Maud and Madge together, — 

Maud and Madge in robes of white, 
The prettiest nightgowns under tliesun. 

Curtained away from the chilly night, 
After the revel is done, — 

Float along in a splendid dream, 
To a golden gittern's tinkling tune. 

While a thousand lustres sliimmering 
stream 
In a i^alace's grand saloon. 

Flashing of jewels and flutter of laces, 
Troi)ical odors sweeter than musk. 

Men and women with beautiful faces. 
And eyes of tropical dusk, — 

And one face shining out like a star, 
One face haunting the dreams of each, 

And one voice, sweeter than others are, 
Breaking into silvery speech, — 

Telling, through lips of bearded bloom, 
An old, old story over again, 



G. W. THORNBURY. 



293 



As down the royal bannered room, 
To the golden gitteru's strain, 

Two and two, they dreamily walk, 
While an unseen spirit walks beside, 

And all unheard in the loveis' talk, 
He claimeth one for a bride, 

0, Maud and Madge, dream on together, 
With never a pang of jealous tear! 

For, ere the bitter St. Agnes weather 
Shall whiten another year, 

Eobed for the bridal, and robed for the 
tomb, 
Braided brown hair and golden tress, 
There '11 be only one of you left for the 
bloom 
Of the bearded lips to press, — 

Only one for the bridal pearls. 

The robe of satin and Brussels lace, — 
Only one to blush through her curls 

At the sight of a lover's face. 

beautiful Madge, in your bridal white, 
For you the revel has just begun ; 

But for her who sleeps in your arms to- 
night 
The revel of Life is done ! 

But robed and crowned with your saintly 
bliss. 

Queen of heaven and bride of the sun, 
beautiful Maud, you '11 never miss 

The kisses another hath won ! 



G. AV. THORNBURY. 



THE JESTER'S SERMON. 

The Jester shook his head and bells, and 

leaped upon a chair. 
The pages laughed, the women screamed, 

and tossed their scented hair; 
The falcon whistled, staghounds bayed, 

the lapdog barked without. 
The scullion drojiped the pitcher brown, 

the cook railed at the lout ! 
The steward, counting out his gold, let 

pouch and money M\, 
And wliy ? because the Jester rose to say 

gi'ace in the hall ! 



The page played with the heron's plume, 

the steward with his chain, 
The butler drummed upon the board, and 

laughed with might and main ; 
The grooms beat on their metal cans, and 

roared till they were red. 
But still the Jester shut his eyes and 

rolled his witty head; 
And when they grew a little still, read 

half a yard of text. 
And, waving hand, struck on the desk, 

then frowned like one perplexed. 

"Dear sinners all," the fool began, 

"man's life is but a jest, 
A dream, a shadow, bubble, air, a vapor 

at the best. 
In a thousand pounds of law I find not 

a single ounce of love ; 
A blind man killed the parson's cow in 

shooting at the dove ; 
The fool that eats till he is sick must 

fast till he is well ; 
The wooer who can flatter most will bear 

away the belle. 

' ' Let no man halloo he is safe till he is 

through the wood ; 
He who will not when he may, must 

tarry when he should ; 
He who laughs at crooked men should 

need walk very straight ; 
0, he who once has won a name may lie 

abed till eight ! 
Make haste to purchase house and land, 

be very slow to wed ; 
True coral needs no painter's brush, nor 

need be daubed with red. 



"The friar, preaching, cursed the thief 

(the pudding in his sleeve). 
To fish for sprats with golden hooks is 

foolish, by your leave, — 
To travel well, — an ass's ears, ape's face, 

liog's mouth, and ostrich legs. 
He does not care a pin for thieves who 

limps about and begs. 
Be always first man at a feast and last 

man at a fray ; 
The short way round, in spite of all, is 

still the longest way. 
When the hungry curate licks the knife, 

there 's not much for the clerk ; 
When the pilot, turning pale and sick, 

looks up, — the stonn grows dark." 



294 



SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 



Then loud they laughed, the fat cook's 

tears ran down into the pan : 
The steward shook, that he was forced 

to drop the brimming can ; 
And then again the women screamed, 

and every staghound bayed, — 
And why? because the motley fool so 

wise a sermon made. 



ANNIE FIELDS. 

[U. S. A.] 

CLIMBING. 

He said, "0 brother, where 's the use of 
climbing ? 

Come rather to the shade beside me 
here, 

And break the bread, and pour the plen- 
teous wine ! 

"Why thus forever climbing one sad 

way? 
Eather burn cedar on the marble hearth. 
And sleep, and wake, and hear the singers 

pass. 

"Come! Stay thy feet, and pant and 
climb no more ! 

Stay Jollity, stay Wit, and Grace, and 
Ease, 

Nor spend your strength of days in scal- 
ing heights!" 

But Wit had clomb full well, and passed 

beyond. 
While he who stayed, cried, "Brother, 

where 's the use?" 
And Jollity went mingling with the 

sad. 

Still passing onward, up the difficult 

road, 
While Grace accompanied, — and all, but 

Ease ; 
And Ease and he two dull companions 

made. 

Forever after said he not, "What use !" 
Grew weary of sweet cedar and soft couch ; 
And wistful gazed to watch those climb- 
ing feet. 



HELEN HUNT. 

[U. S A.] 

CORONATION. 

At the king's gate the subtle noon 
Wove tilmy yellow nets of sun ; 

Into the drowsy snare too soon 
The guards fell one by one. 

Through the king's gate, unquestioned 
then, 
A beggar went, and laughed, "This 
brings 
Me chance, at last, to see if men 
Fare better, being kings." 

The king sat bowed beneath his crown, 
Propping his face with listless hand ; 

Watching the hour-glass sifting down 
Too slow its shining sand. 

"Poor man, what wouldst thou have of 
me.'" 

The beggar turned, and, pitying. 
Replied, like one in a dream, "Of thee, 

Nothing. I want the king." 

Uprose the 'king, and from his head 
Shook off the crown and threw it by. 

"Oman, thou must have known," he said, 
"A greater king than I !" 

Through all the gates, unquestioned then, 
Went king and beggar hand in hand. 

Whispered the king, "Shall I know when 
Before his throne I stand? ' 

The beggar laughed. Free winds in haste 
Were wiping from the king's hot brow 

The crimson lines the crown had traced. 
"This is his presence now." 

At the king's gate, the crafty noon 
Unwove its yellow nets of sun ; 

Out of their sleep in terror soon 
The guards waked one by one. 

"Ho here ! Ho there ! Has no man seen 
The king?" The cry ran to and fro ; 

Beggar and king, they laughed, I ween, 
"The laugh that free men know. 

On the king's gate the moss grew gray: 
The king came not. They called him 
dead ; 

And made his eldest son one day 
Slave in his father's stead. 



D-^NTE GABRIEL EOSSETTI. — CELIA THAXTER. 



295 



THE WAY TO SING. 

The birds ni ust k now. "Who wisely sings 

Will sing as they ; 
The common air has generous wings, 

Songs make their way. 
No messenger to run before, 

Devising plan ; 
No mention of the place or hour 

To any man ; 
No waiting till some sound betrays 

A listening ear ; 
No different voice, no new delays. 

If steps draw near. 

"What bird is that? Its song is good." 

And eager eyes 
Go peering through the dusky wood, 

In glad surprise; 
Then late at night, when by his fire 

The traveller sits, 
Watching the flaine grow blighter, higher. 

The sweet song flits 
By snatches through liis weary brain 

To help him rest ; 
When next he goes that road again. 

An empty nest 
On leafless bough will make him sigh, 

"Ah me ! last spring 
Just here I heard, in passing by, 

That rare bird sing!" 

But while he sighs, remembering 

How sweet the song. 
The little bird, on tireless wing, 

Is borne along 
In other air, and other men 

With weary feet. 
On other roads, the simple strain 

Are finding sweet. 
The birds must know. Who wisely sings 

Will sing as they ; 
The common air has generous wings, 

Songs make their way. 



DAXTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI. 

THE SEA-LIMITS. 

Consider the sea's listless chime ; 
Time's self it is made audible, — 
The murmur of the earth's own shell, 

Secret continuance sublime 



Is the era's end. Our sight may pass 

No furlong farther. Since time was. 

This sound hath told the lapse of time. 

No quiet which is death's, — it hath 
The mournfulness of ancient life. 
Enduring always at dull stril'e. 

As the world's heart of rest and wrath, 
Its i)ainful pulse is on the sands. 
Lost utterly, the whole sky stands 

Gray and not known along its path. 

Listen alone beside the sea. 

Listen alone among the woods ; 

Those voices of twin solitudes 
Shall have one sound alike to thee. 

Hark where the murmurs of thronged 
men 

Surge and sink back and surge again, — 
Still the one voice of wave and tree. 



Gather a shell from the strewn beach, 
And listen at its lips ; they sigh 
The same desire and mystery. 

The echo of the whole sea's speech. 
And all mankind is thus at heart 
Not anything but what thou art ; 

And earth, sea, man, are all in each. 



CELIA THAXTER. 

[U. S. A.] 



A SUMMER DAY. 

At daybreak in the fresh light, joyfully 
The fishermen drew in their laden net ; 

The shore shone rosy purple, and tlie sea 
Was streaked with violet. 



And pink with sunrise, many a shadowy 
sail 
Lay southward, lighting up the sleep- 
ing bay; 
And in the west the white moon, still and 
pale. 
Faded before the day. 

Silence was everywhere. The rising tide 
Slowly filled every cove and inlet small ; 

A musical low whisper, multiplied. 
You jieard, and that was all. 



296 



SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 



No clouds at dawn, but as the sun climbed 
liigher, 
White columns, thunderous, splendid, 
up the sky 
Floated and stood, heaped in his steady 
fire, 
A stately company. 

Stealing along the coast from cape to cape 
The weird mirage crept tremulously on, 

In many a magic change and wondrous 
shape, 
Throbbing beneath the sun. 

At noon the wind rose, swept the glassy 
sea 
To sudden ripple, thrust against the 
clouds 
A strenuous shoulder, gathering steadily 
Drove them before in crowds ; 

Till all the west was dark, and inky black 
The level-ruffled water underneath. 

And up the wind-cloud tossed, — aghostly 
rack, — 
In many a ragged WTeath. 

Then sudden roared the thunder, a great 
peal 
Magnificent, that broke and rolled 
away ; 
And down the wind plunged, like a furi- 
ous keel. 
Cleaving the sea to spray ; 

And brought the rain sweeping o'er land 
and sea. 
And then was tumult! Lightning 
sharp aud keen. 
Thunder, wind, rain, — a mighty jubilee 
The heaven and earth between ! 

Loud the roused ocean sang, a chorus 
grand ; 

A solemn music rolled in undertone 
Of waves that broke about on either hand 

The little island lone ; 

Where, joyful in his tempest as his calm, 
Held in the hollow of that hand of his, 

I joined with heart and soul in God's 
great psalm. 
Thrilled with a nameless bliss. 

Soon lulled the wind, the summer storm 
soon died; 
The shattered clouds went eastward, 
drifting slow : 



From the low sun the rain-fringe swept 
aside. 
Bright in his rosy glow, 

And wide a splendor streamed through 
all the sky ; 
O'er sea and land one soft, delicious 
blush, 
That touched the gray rocks lightly, 
tenderly ; 
A transitory flush. 

Warm, odorous gusts blew off" the distant 
land. 
With spice of pine-woods, breath of hay 
new-mown. 
O'er miles of waves and sea-scents cool 
and bland. 
Full in our faces blown. 

Slow faded the sweet light, and peacefully 
The quiet stars came out, one after one : 

The holy twilight fell upon the sea. 
The summer day was done. 

Such unalloyed delight its hours had 
given. 
Musing, this thought rose in my grate- 
ful mind, 
That God, who watches all things, up in 
heaven. 
With patient eyes and kind. 

Saw and was pleased, perhaps, one child 
of his 
Dared to be happy like the little birds, 
Because He gave his children days like 
this. 
Rejoicing beyond words ; 

Dared, lifting up to Him iintroubled eyes 
Ingratitude that worship is, and prayer, 

Sing and be glad with ever new surprise. 
He made his world so fair ! 



SUBMISSION. 

The sparrow sits and sings, and sings ; 

Softly the sunset's lingering light 
Lies rosy over rock and turf. 
And reddens where the restless surf 

Tosses on high its plumes of white. 

Gently and clear the sparrow sings. 
While twilight steals across the sea. 



WILLIAM MOERIS. — HARRIET McEWEIs KIMBALL. 



297 



And still and bright the evening star 
Twinkles above the golden bar 
That in the west lies quietly. 

0, steadfastly the sparrow sings, 

And sweet the sound ; and sweet the 
touch 
Of wooing winds ; and sweet the sight 
OF happy Nature's deep delight 
In her fair spring, desired so much ! 

But while so clear the sparrow sings 
A cry of death is in my ear ; 

The crashing of the riven wreck. 
Breakers that sweep the shuddering 
deck, 
And sounds of agony and fear. 

How is it that the birds can sing? 
Life is so full of bitter pain ; 

Hearts are so wrung with hopeless 

grief; 
Woe is so long and joy so brief; 
Nor shall the lost return again. 

Though rapturously the span-ow sings, 
No bliss of Nature can restore 
• Tiie friends whose hands I clasped 
so warm, 
Sweet souls that through the night 
and storm 
Fled from the earth forevermore. 

Yet still the sparrow sits and sings. 
Till longing, mourning, sorrowing love. 
Groping to find what hope may be 
Within death's awful mystery, 
Eeaches its empty arms above ; 

And listening, while the sparrow sings. 
And soft the evening shadows fall. 
Sees, through the crowding tears 

that blind, 
A little light, and seems to find 
And clasp God's hand, who wrought it 
all. 



WILLIAM MOKRIS. 



St.ayer of winter, art thou here again ? 
welcome, thou that bring'st the sum- 
mer nigh ! 



The bitter wind makes not thy victory 

vain. 
Nor will we mock thee for thy faint blue 

sky. 
Welcome, March ! whose kindly days 

and dry 
Make April ready for the throstle's song, 
Thou first redresser of the winter's wrong ! 

Yea, welcome, March ! and though 1 die 

ere June, 
Yet for the hope of life I give thee praise, 
Striving to swell the burden of the tune 
That even now I hear thy brown birds 

raise, 
Unmindful of the past or coming days ; 
Who sing, "0 joy ! a new year is begun ! 
What happiness "to look upon the sun !" 

0, what begetteth all this storm of bliss, 
But Death himself, wlio, crying solemnly. 
Even from the heart of sweet Forgetful- 

ness, 
Bids us, " Rejoice ! lest pleasureless ye die. 
Within a little time must ye go by. 
Stretch forth your open hands, and, while 

ye live. 
Take all the gifts that Death and Life 

may give" ? 



HAERIET McEWEN KIMBALL. 

[U. S. A.] 

THE CRICKETS. 

Pipe, little minstrels of the waning year, 

In gentle concert pipe ! 
Pipe the warm noons ; the mellow har- 
vest near ; 

The apples dropping ripe ; 

The tempered sunshine, and the softened 
shade ; , 

The trill of lonely bird ; 
The sweet, sad hush on Nature's glad- 
ness laid ; 
The sounds through silence heard ! 

Pipe tenderly the passing of the year ; 

The summer's brief reprieve ; 
The dry husk rustling round the yellow 
ear; 

The chill of morn and eve ! 



298 



SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 



Pipe the untroubled trouble of the year ; 

Pipe low the painless pain ; 
Pipe your unceasing melancholy cheer ; 

The year is in the wane. 



ALL'S WELL. 



The day is ended. Ere I sink to sleep, 
My weary spirit seeks repose in thine ; 
Father ! forgive my trespasses, and keep 
This little life of mine. 



With loving-kindness curtain thou my 
bed, 
And cool in rest my burning pilgiim 
feet; 
Thy pardon be the pillow for my head, — 
So shall my sleep be sweet. 

At peace with all the world, dear Lord, 
and thee, 
No fears my soul's unwavering faith 
can shake ; 
All 's well, whichever side the grave for 
me 
The morning light may break ! 



HARRIET W. PRESTON. 

[U. S. A.] 

THE SURVIVORS. 

In this sad hour, so still, so late, 

When flowers are dead, and birds are 
flown. 

Close-sheltered from the blasts of Fate, 
Our little love burns brightly on, 



Amid the wrecks of dear desire 

That ride the waves of life no more ; 

As stranded voyagers light their fire 
Upon a lonely island shore. 



And though we deem that soft and fair. 
Beyond the tempest and the sea. 

Our heart's true homes are smiling, where 
In life we never more shall be, — 



Yet we are saved, and we may rest ; 

And, hearing each the other's voice, 
We cannot hold ourselves unblest, 

Although we may not quite rejoice. 

We '11 warm our hearts, and softly sing 
Thanks for the shore whereon we're 
driven ; 
Storm-tossed no more, we '11 fold the 
wing. 
And dream forgotten dreams of heaven. 



HIRAM RICH. 

[U. S. A.] 



IN THE SEA. 

The salt wind blows upon my cheek, 

As it blew a year ago. 
When twenty boats were crushed among 

The rocks of Norman's Woe. 
'T was dark then ; 't is light now, 

And the sails are leaning low. 

In dreams, I pull the sea-weed o'er, 

And find a face not his. 
And hope another tide will be 

More pitying than this : 
The wind turns, the tide turns, — 

They take what hope there is. 

My life goes on as life must go. 
With all its sweetness spilled : 

My God, why should one heart of two 
Beat on, when one is stilled ? 

Through heart-wreck, or home-wreck. 
Thy happy sparrows build. 

Though boats go down, men build again 

Whatever wind may blow ; 
If blight be in the wheat one year. 

They trust again, and sow. 
The grief comes, the change conies. 

The tides run high or low. 

Some have their dead, where, sweet and 
calm. 

The summers bloom and go ; 
The sea withholds my dead, — I walk 

The bar when tides are low. 
And wonder how the grave-grass 

Can have the heart to grow ! 



FKA^XIS BRET HAETE. 



299 



Flow on, unconsenting sea, 
And keep my dead below ; 

The night-watch set for me is long, 
But, through it all, I know, 

Or life comes or death comes, 
God leads the eternal flow. 



FRANCIS BRET HARTE. 

[U. S. A.] 

CONCHA. 

PRESIDIO DE SAN FRANCISCO. 
1800. 



Looking seaward, o'er the sand-hills 
stands the fortress, old and quaint. 

By the San Francisco friars lifted to their 
l^atron saint, — 

Sponsor to that wondrous city, now apos- 
tate to the creed. 

On whose youthful walls the Padre saw 
the angel's golden reed ; 

All its trophies long since scattered, all 
its blazon brushed away. 

And the flag that flies above it but a 
triumph of to-day. 

Never scar of siege or battle challenges 

the wandering eye, — 
Never breach of warlike onset holds the 

curious passer-by ; 

Only one sweet human fancy interweaves 

its threads of gold 
With the plain and homespun present, 

and a love that ne'er grows old ; 

Only one thing holds its crumbling walls 
above the meaner dust, — 

Listen to the simple story of a woman's 
love and tnist. 



II. 

Count von Resanoff, the Russian, envoy 

of the mighty Czar, 
Stood beside the deep embrasures where , 

the brazen cannon are. I 



He with grave provincial magnates long 

had held serene debate 
On the Treaty of Alliance and the high 

aff'airs of state ; 

He, from grave provincial magnates, oft 
had turned to talk apart 

With the Comandante's daughter, on the 
questions of the heart, 

Until points of gravest import yielded 

slowly, one by one. 
And by Love was consummated what 

Diplomacy begun ; 

Till beside the deep embrasures, where 

the brazen cannon are, 
He received the twofold contract for 

approval of the Czar ; 

Till beside the brazen cannon the be- 
trothed bade adieu. 

And, from sally-port and gateway, north 
the Russian eagles flew. 



Long beside the deep embrasures, where 

the brazen cannon are. 
Did they wait the promised bridegi-oom 

and the answer of the Czar ; 

Day by day on wall and bastion beat the 
hollow empty bi'eeze, — 

Day by day the sunlight glittered on the 
vacant, smiling seas ; 

Week by week the near hills whitened 
in their dusty leather cloaks, — 

Week by week the far hills darkened 
from the fringing plain of oaks ; 

Till the rains came, and far-breaking, on 
the fierce southwester tost. 

Dashed the whole long coast with color, 
and then vanished and were lost. 

So each year the seasons shifted ; wet and 
warm and drear and diy ; 

Half a year of clouds and flowers, — half' 
a year of dust and sky. 

Still it brought no ship nor message, — 
brought no tidings ill nor meet 

For the statesmanlike Commander, for 
the daughter fair and sweet. 



300 



SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 



Yet she heard the varying message, 
voiceless to all ears beside : 

"He will come," the flowers whispered; 
"Come no more," the dry hills 



Still she found him with the waters lifted 
by the morning breeze, — 

Still she lost him with the folding of the 
great white-tented seas ; 

Until hollows chased the dimples from 
her cheeks of olive brown, 

And at times aswift, shy moisture dragged 
the long sweet lashes down ; 

Or the small mouth curved and quivered 
as for some denied caress, 

And the fair young brow was knitted in 
an infantine distress. 

Then the grim Commander, pacing where 

the brazen cannon are, 
Comforted the maid with proverbs, — 

wisdom gathered from afar ; 

Bits of ancient observation by his fathers 

garnered, each 
As a pebble worn and polished in the 

current of his speech : 

" 'Those who wait the coming rider travel 

twice as far as he'; 
'Tired wench and coming butter never 

did in time agree.' 

" 'He that getteth himself honey, though 
a clown, he shall have flies' ; 

'In the end God grinds the miller' ; 'In 
the dark the mole has eyes. ' 

'"He whose father is Alcalde, of his trial 

hath no fear,' — 
And be sure the Count has reasons that 

will make his conduct clear." 

Then the voice sententious faltered, and 
the wisdom it would teach 

Lost itself in fondest trifles of his soft 
Castilian speech ; 

And on "Concha," "Conchitita," and 
"Conchita," he would dwell 

With the fond reiteration M-hich the 
Spaniard knows so well. 



So with proverbs and caresses, half in 
faith and half in doubt, 

Everv day some hope was kindled, flick- 
ered, faded, and went out. 



Yearl}% down the hillside sweeping, came 
the stately cavalcade, 

Bringing revel to va(iuero, joy and com- 
fort to each maid ; 



Bringing days of formal visit, social feast 
and rustic sport ; 

Of bull-baiting on the plaza, of love- 
making in the court. 



Vainly then at Concha's lattice, — vain'y 

as the idle wind 
Rose the thin high Spanish tenor that 

bespoke the youth too kind; 

Vainly, leaning from their saddles, ca- 

balleros, bold and fleet, 
Plucked for her the buried chicken from 

beneath their mustang's feet ; 

So in vain the barren hillsides with their 

gaj'' scrapes blazed, 
Blazed and vanished in the dust-cloud 

that their flying hoofs had raised. 

Then the drum called from the rampart, 
and once more with patient mien 

The Commander and his daughter each 
took up the dull routine, — 

Each took up the petty duties of a life 

apart and lone, 
Till the slow years wroiight a music in 

its dreary monotone. 



Forty years on wall and bastion swept 

the hollow idle breeze. 
Since the Russian eagle fluttered from 

the California seas. 



Forty years on wall and bastion wrought 
its slow but sure decay ; 

And St. George's cross was lifted in the 
port of Monterey. 



FRANCIS BRET HARTE. 



301 



And the citadel was lighted, and the hall 

was gayly drest, 
All to honor Sir George Simpson, famous 

traveller and guest. 

Far and near the people gathered to the 

costly banquet set, 
And exchanged congratulation with the 

English baronet ; 

Till the formal speeches ended, and 
amidst the laugh and wine 

Some one spoke of Concha's lover, — 
heedless of the warning sign. 

Quickly then cried Sir George Simpson : 
"Speak no ill of him, 1 pray. 

He is dead. He died, poor fellow, forty 
years ago this day. 

"Died while speeding home to Russia, 
falling from a fractious horse. 

Left a sweetheart too, they tell me. 
Married, I suppose, of course ! 

" Lives she yet ? " A death-like silence 
fell on banquet, guests, and hall. 

And a trembling figure rising fixed the 
awe-struck gaze of all. 

Two black eyesin darkened orbitsgleamed 
beneath the nun's white hood ; 

Black serge hid tlie wasted figure, bowed 
and stricken where it stood. 

" Lives she yet ? " Sir George repeated. 

All were hushed as Concha drew 
Closer yet her nun's attire. "Senor, 

pardon, she died too !" 



DICKENS IN CAMP. 

Above the pines the moon was slowly 
drifting. 

The river sang below ; 
The dim Sierras, far be}'ond, uplifting 

Their minarets of snow. 



Till one arose, and from his pack's scant 
treasure 
A hoarded volume drew. 
And cards were dropped from hands of 
listless leisure 
To hear the tale anew ; 



And then, while round them shadows 
gathered faster, 
And as the firelight fell. 
He read aloud the book wherein the 
Master 
Had writ of "Little Nell." 



Perhaps 'twas boyish fancj',— for the 
reader 
Was youngest of them all, — 
But, as he read, from clustering pine and 
cedar 
A silence seemed to Ml ; 

The fir-trees, gathering closer in the 
shadows. 
Listened in every spray. 
While the whole camp, with " Nell " on 
English meadows. 
Wandered and lost their way. 

And so in mountain solitudes — o'ertakeu 
As by some spell divine — 

Their cares dropyied from them like the 
needles shaken 
From out the gusty pine. 

Lost is that camp, and wasted all its fire : 
And he who wrought that spell ? 

Ah, towering pine, and stately Kentish 
spire, 
Ye have one tale to tell ! 



Lost is that camp ! but let its fragrant 
story 
Blend with the breath that thi'ills 
With hop-vines' incense all the pensive 
glorv 
That fills the Kentish hills. 



The roaring camp-fire, with rude humor, 
painted 
The ruddy tints of health 
On haggard face, and form that drooped Deem 
and fainted 
In the fierce race for wealth ; 1 



And on that grave where English oak 

and holly 
And laurel wreaths entwine, 
it not all a too presunitituous 

folly,- 
This spray of Western pine ! 



302 



SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 



ANNIE D. GREEN (MARIAN 
DOUGLAS). 

[U. S. A.] 

THE PURITAN LOVERS. 

Dkawn out, like lingering bees, to share 
The last, sweet summer weather, 

Beneath the reddening maples walked 
Two Puritans together, — 

A youth and maiden, heeding not 

The woods which round them bright- 
ened. 

Just conscious of each other's thoughts, 
Half happy and half frightened. 

Grave were their brows, and few their 
words, 

And coarse their garb and simple ; 
The maiden's very cheek seemed shy 

To own its worldly dimple. 

For stem the time; they dwelt with 
Care ; 

And Fear was oft a comer ; 
A sober April ushered in 

The Pilgrim's toilful summer. 

And stern their creed ; they tarried here 
Mere desert-land sojourners : 

They must not dream of mirth or rest, 
God's humble lesson-learners. 

The temple's sacred perfume round 
Their week-day robes was clinging ; 

Their mirth was but the golden bells 
On priestly garments ringing. 

But as to-day they softly talked. 
That serious youth and maiden. 

Their (dainest words strange beauty wore, 
Like weeds with dewdrops laden. 

The saddest theme had something sweet. 
The gravest, something tender. 

While with slow steps they wandered on. 
Mid summer's fading splendor. 

He said, "Next week the church will 
hold 

A day of prayer and fasting" ; 
And then he stopped, and bent to pick 

A white life-everlasting, — 



A silvery bloom, with fadeless 

He gave it to her, sighing ; 
A mute confession was his glance, 

Her blush a mute replying. 

"Mehetabel !" (at last he spoke), 
"My fairest one and dearest ! 

One thought is ever to my heart 
The sweetest and the nearest. 

"You read my soul ; you know my wish ; 

0, grant me its fulfilling 1 " 
She answered low, "If Heaven smiles, 

And if my father 's willing ! " 

No idle passion swayed her heart. 
This quaint New England beauty ! 

Faith was the guardian of her life, — 
Obedience was a duty. 

Too truthful for reserve, she stood. 
Her brown eyes earthward casting. 

And held with trembling hand the while 
Her white life-everlasting. 

Her sober answer pleased the youth, — 
Frank, clear, and gravely cheerful ; 

He left her at her father's door. 
Too happy to be fearful. 

She looked on high, with earnest plea. 
And Heaven seemed bright above Iier; 

And when she shyly spoke his name, 
Her father praised her lover. 

And when, that night, she sought her 
couch, 

With head-board high and olden, 
Her prayer was praise, her pillow down, 

And all her dreams were golden. 

And still upon her tJirobbing heart. 
In bloom and breath undying, 

A few life-everlasting flowers, 
Her lover's gift, were lying. 

Venus' myrtles, fresh and green ! 

Cupid's blushing roses ! 
Not on your classic flowers alone 

The sacred light reposes ; 

Though gentler care may shield your buds 
From north -winds rude and blasting. 

As dear to Love, those few, pale flowers 
Of white life-everlasting. 



WILLLVM D. HOWELLS. — S. M. B. PIATT. 



303 



WILLIAM D. HOWELLS. 

[U. S. A.] 

BEFORE THE GATE. 

They gave the whole long day to idle 
laughter, 

To fitful song and jest, 
To moods of soberness as idle, after. 

And silences, as idle too as the rest. 

But when at last upon their way retum- 
.ing. 
Taciturn, late, and loath, 
Through the broad meadow in the sun- 
set burning, 
Tliej' reached the gate, one fine spell 
hindered them both. 

Her heart was troubled with a subtile 
anguish 
Such as but women know 
That wait, and lest love speak or speak 
not languish, 
And what they would, would rather 
they would not so ; 

Till he said, — man-like nothing compre- 
hending 
Of all the wondrous guile 
That women won win themselves with, 
and bending 
Eyes of relentless asking on her the 
while, — 

"Ah, if beyond this gate the path united 

Our steps as far as death. 
And I might open it! — " His voice, 

affiighteil 
At its own daring, faltered under his 

breath. 

Then she — whom both his faith and fear 
enchanted 
Far beyond words to tell. 
Feeling her woman's finest wit had 
wanted 
The art he had that knew to blunder 
so well — 

Shyly drew near, a little step, and mock- 
ing, 
"Shall we not be too late 
For tea?" she said. "I'm qviite worn 
out with walking : 
Yes, thanks, your arm. And will j'ou 
— open the gate ? " 



S. M. B. PIATT. 

[U. S. A.] 

MY OLD KENTUCKY NURSE. 

I KNEW a Princess: she was old. 

Crisp-haired, flat-featured, with a look 

Such as no dainty pen of gold 
Would write of in a Fairy Book. 

So bent she almost crouched, her face 
Was like the Sjihinx's face, to me. 

Touched with vast patience, desert grace, 
And lonesome, brooding mystery. 

What wonder that a faith so strong 
As hers, so sorrowful, so still, 

Should watch in bitter sands so long, 
Obedient to a burdening will ! 

This Princess was a Slave, — like one 

I read of in a painted tale ; 
Yet free enough to see the sun, 

And all the flowers, without a vail. 

Not of the Lamp, not of the Ring, 
The helpless, powerful Slave was she, 

But of a subtler, fiercer Thing: 
She M-as the Slave of Slavery. 

Court-lace nor jewels had she seen : 
She wore a ])recious smile, so rare 

That at her side the whitest queen 
Were dark, — her darkness was so fair. 

Nothing of loveliest loveliness 

This strange, sad Princess seemed to 
lack; 
Majestic with her calm distress 

She was, and beautiful though black : 

Black, but enchanted black, and shut 
In some vague Giant's tower of air,. 

Built higher than her hope was. But 
The True Knight came and found her 
there. 

The Knight of the Pale Horse, he laid 
His shadowy lance against the spell 

That hid her Self: as if afraid. 

The cruel blackness shrank and fell. 

Then, lifting slow her pleasant sleep. 
He took her with him through the night, 

And swam a River cold and deep. 
And vanished up an awful Height. 



304 



SOXGS OF TIIEEE CENTUKIES. 



And, in her Father's House beyond, 
They gave lier heauty, robe, and crown, 

— On me, I think, far, faint, and fond. 
Her eyes to-day look, yearning, down. 



B. F. TAYLOR. 

[U. S. A.] 

THE OLD-FASHIONED CHOER. 

I HAVE fancied sometimes, the old Bethel- 
bent beam. 

That trembled to earth in the Patriarch's 
dream. 

Was a ladder of song in that wilderness 
rest 

From the pillow of stone to the Blue of 
the Blest, 

And the angels descending to dwell with 
lis here, 

"Old Hundred" and "Corinth" and 
"China" and "Mear." 

All the hearts are not dead, nor under 

the sod, 
That those breaths can blow open to 

Heaven and God ! 
Ah, "Silver Street" leads by a bright 

golden road, 
— 0, not to the hymns that in harmony 

flowed, — 
But those sweet human psalms in the 

old-fashioned choir. 
To the girl that sang alto, — the girl that 

sang air ! 
"Let us sing in His praise," the good 

minister said. 
All the psalm-books at once fluttered open 

at "York," 
Sunned their long dotted wings in the 

words that he read, 
"While the leader leaped into the tune just 

ahead. 
And politely picked up the key-note with 

a fork. 
And the vicious old viol went growling 

along. 
At the heels of the girls, in the rear of 

the song. 

I need not a wing, — bid no genii come. 
With a wonderful web from Arabian loom. 
To bear me again up the river of Time, 



When the world was in rhythm and life 

was its rhyme ; 
Where the stream of the years flowed so 

noiseless and narroAV, 
That across it there floated the song of 

the sparrow ; 
For a sprig of green caraway carries me 

there, 
To the old village church and the old 

village choir. 
When clear of the floor my feet slowly 

swung 
And timed the sweet pulse of the praise 

as they sung 
Till the glory aslant from the afternoon 

sun 
Seemed the rafters of gold in God's temple 

begun ! 
You may smile at the nasals of old Dea- 
con Brown, 
Who followed by scent till he ran the 

tune down, — 
And dear sister Green, with more good- 
ness than grace. 
Rose and fell on the tunes as she stood 

in her place. 
And where "Coronation" exultantly 

flows. 
Tried to reach the high notes on the tips 

of her toes ! 
To the land of the leal they have gone 

with their song. 
Where the choir and the chorus together 

belong. 
0, be lifted, ye Gates ! Let me hear them 

again, — 
Blessed song, blessed Sabbath, forever 

Amen ! 



LAURA C. REDDEN. 



[U. S. A.] 



MAZZINI. 



A LIGHT is out in Italy, 

A golden tongue of purest flame. 
We watched it burning, long and lone, 

And every watcher knew its name, 
And knew from whence its fervor came : 
! That one rare light of Italy, 
Which put self-seeking souls to shame ! 

Tliis light which burnt for Italy 

Through all the blackness of her night, 



JOHN HAY. 



305 



She doubted, once upon a time, 
Because it took away her sight, 

She looked and said, "There is no light ! 
It was thine eyes, poor Italy ! 

That knew not dark apart from bright. 

This flame which burnt for Italy, 
It would not let her haters sleep. 

They blew at it with angry breath, 
And only fed its upward leap, 

And only made it hot and deep. 
Its bui-ning showed us Italy, 

And all the hopes she had to keep. 

This light is out in Italy, 

Her eyes shall seek for it in vain ! 
For her sweet sake it spent itself. 

Too early flickering to its wane, — 
Too long blown over by her pain. 

Bow down and weep, Italy, 
Thou canst not kindle it again ! 



TJNAWARES. 

The wind was whispering to the vines 
The secret of the summer night ; 
The tinted oriel window gleamed 
But faintly in the misty light ; 
Beneath it we together sat 
In the sweet stillness of content. 

Till from a slow-consenting cloud 
Came forth Diana, bright and bold. 
And drowned us, ere we were aware, 
In a gi-eat shower of liquid gold ; 
And, shyly lifting up my eyes, 
I made acquaintance with your face. 

And sudden something in me stirred. 
And moved me to impulsive speech, 
"With little flutterings between. 
And little pauses to beseech. 
From your sweet graciousness of mind. 
Indulgence and a kindly ear. 

Ah ! glad was I as any bird 
That softly pipes a timid note. 
To hear it taken up and trilled 
Out cheerily by a stronger throat, 
"When, free from discord and constraint. 
Your thought responded to my thought. 

I had a carven missal once, 
"With graven scenes of "Christ, his"Woe." 
One picture in that quaint old book 
"Will never from my memory go, 
"20 



Though merely in a childish wise 
I used to search for it betimes. 

It showed the face of God in man 
Abandoned to his watch ol' pain. 
And given of his own good-will 
To every weaker thing's disdain ; 
But from the darkness overhead 
Two pitying angel eyes looked down. 

How often in the bitter night 
Have I not fallen on my face. 
Too sick and tired of lieart to ask 
God's pity in my grievous case ; 
Till the dank deadness of the dark, 
Eeceding, left me, pitiless. 

Then have I said : " Ah ! Christ the Lord ! 
God sent his angel unto thee ; 
But both ye leave me to myself, — 
Perchance ye do not even see ! " 
Then was it as a mighty stone 
Above my sunken heart were rolled. 

Now, in the moon's transfiguring light, 
I seemed to see you in a dream ; 
A'our listening face was silvered o'er 
By one divinely radiant liearn ; 
I leant towards you, and my talk 
"Was dimly of the haunting past. 

I took you through deep soundings where 
My freighted ships went dow n at noon, — 
Gave glimpses of deflowered plains, 
Blown over by the hot Simoon ; 
Then I was silent for a space : 
' ' God sends no angel unto me ! " 

My heart withdrew into itself. 
When lo ! a knocking at the door: 
"Am I so soon a stranger here. 
Who was an honored guest before ? " 
Then looking in your eyes, I knew 
You were God's angel sent to me ! 



JOHN HAY. 

[U. S. A.] 

A WOMAN'S LOVE. 

A SENTINEL angel sitting high in glory 
Heard this shrill wail ring out from Pur- 
gatory : 
"Have mercy, mighty angel, hear my 
story ! 



306 



SONGS OF THREE CENTUEIES. 



" I loved, — and, blind with passionate 

love, I fell. 
Love brought me down to death, and 

death to Hell. 
For God is just, and death for sin is well. 

*' I do not rage against his high decree, 
Nor for myself do ask that grace shall be ; 
But for my love on earth who mourns 
for me. 

•'Great Spirit! Let me see my love 

again 
And comfort him one hour, and I were 

fain 
To pay a thousand years of fire and pain." 

Then said the pitying angel, "Nay, 
repent 

That wild vow ! Look, the dial-finger 's 
bent 

Down to the last hour of thy punish- 
ment ! " 

But still she wailed, "I pray thee, let 

me go ! 
I cannot rise to peace and leave him so. 
0, let me soothe him in his bitter woe ! " 

The brazen gates ground sullenly ajar. 
And upward, joyous, like a rising star, 
She rose and vanished in the ether far. 

But soon adown the dying sunset sailing, 
And like a wounded bird her pinions 

trailing. 
She fluttered back, with broken-hearted 

wailing. 

She sobbed, "I found him by the sum- 
mer sea 

Keclined, his head upon a maiden's 
knee, — 

She curled his hair and kissed him. AVoe 
is me ! " 

She wept, "Now let my punishment 

begin ! 
I have been fond and foolish. Let me in 
To expiate my sorrow and my sin." 



The angel answered 

go higher ! 
To be deceived in your 

desire 
Was bitterer than 

fire ! " 



'Nay, sad soul, 
true heart's 



ELIZABETH STUAET PHELPS. 

[U. S. A.] 

ON THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS. 

It chanceth once to every soul. 

Within a narrow hour of doubt and dole, 

Upon Life's Bridge of Sighs to stand, 
A palace and a prison on each hand. 

palace of the rose-heart's hue ! 
How like a flower the warm light falls 
from you ! 

prison with the hollow eyes ! 
Beneath your stony stare no flowers arise. 

palace of the rose-sweet sin ! 

How safe the heart that does not enter in ! 

blessed prison-walls ! how true 
The freedom of the soul that chooseth 
you! 



ALL THE RIVERS. 

"All the rivers run into the sea." 
Like the pulsing of a river. 
The motion of a song, 
Wind the olden words along 
The tortuous windings of my thought, 
whenever 
I sit beside the sea. 

All the rivers run into the sea. 
O you little leaping river. 
Laugh on beneath your breath ! 
With a heart as deep as death. 
Strong stream, go patient, brave and 
hasting never, 
I sit beside the sea. 

All the rivers run into the sea. 
Why the striving of a river, 
The passion of a soul ? 
Calm the eternal waters roll 
Upon the eternal shore. Somewhere, 
whatever 
Seeks it finds the sea. 

All the rivers run into the sea. 

thou bounding, burning river. 

Hurrying heart ! — I seem 

To know (so one knows in a dream) 



thousand j'ears of : That in the waiting heart of God forever 
I Thou too shalt find the sea. 



EEBECCA S. PALFREY. — WILLIAM C. GANNETT. 



307 



REBECCA S. PALFREY. 

[U. S. A.] 

WHITE UNDERNEATH. 

Into a city street, 

Narrow and noisome, chance had led my 

feet; 
Poisonous to every sense ; and the sun's 

rays 
Loved not the unclean place. 

It seemed that no pure thing 

Its whiteness here would ever dare to 

bring ; 
Yet even into this dark place and low 
God had sent down his snow. 



Here, too, a little child 

Stood by the drift, now blackened and 

defiled ; 
And with his rosy hands, in earnest play, 
Scraped the dark crust away. 

Checking my hurried pace. 
To watch the busy hands and earnest face, 
I heard him laugh aloud in pure delight. 
That underneath, 't was white. 

Then, through a broken pane, 

A woman's voice summoned him in again. 

With softened mother-tones, that half 

excused 
The unclean words she used. 



And as I lingered near. 
His baby accents fell upon m)'' ear : 
"See, I can make the snow again for you. 
All clean and white and new !" 



Ah ! surely God knows best. 

Our sight is short ; faith trusts to him 

the rest. 
Sometimes, we know, he gives to human 

hands 
To work out his commands. 



Perhaps he holds apart. 

By baby fingers, in that mother's heart. 

One fair, clean spot that yet may spread 

and grow. 
Till all be white as snow. 



WILLIAM C. GANNETT. 

[U. S. A.] 

LISTENING FOR GOD. 

I HEAR it often in the dark, 

I hear it in the light, — 
Where is the voice that calls to me 

With such a quiet might ? 
It seems but echo to my thought, 

And j'et beyond the stars ; 
It seems a heart-beat in a hush, 

And yet the planet jars. 

0, may it be that far within 

My inmost soul there lies 
A spirit-sky, that opens with 

Those voices of surprise ? 
And can it be, by night and day, 

That firmament serene 
Is just the heaven where God himself, 

The Father, dyvells unseen ? 

God within, so close to me 

That every thought is plain. 
Be judge, be friend, be Father still, 

And in thy heaven reign ! 
Thy heaven is mine, — my very soul! 

Thy words are sweet and strong; 
They fill my inward silences 

With music and with song. 

They send me challenges to right, 

And loud rebuke my ill ; 
They ring my bells of victory. 

They breathe my "Peace, be still!" 
They ever seem to say, "My child, 

Why seek me so all day? 
Now journey inward to thyself. 

And listen by the way." 



MARY G. BRAINERD. 



GOD KNOWETH. 

I KNOW not what shall befall me, 
God hangs a mist o'er my eyes. 

And so, each step of my onward path. 
He makes new scenes to rise. 

And every joy he sends me comes 
As a sweet and glad surprise. 



308 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 


1 see not a step before me, 


As tired of sin as any child 


As I tread on another year ; 


Was ever tired of play, 


But the past is still in God's keeping, 


When evening's hush has folded iu 


The future iiis mercy shall clear. 


The noises of the day ; 


And what looks dark in the distance 




May brighten as 1 draw near. 


When just for very weariness 




The little one will creep 


For perhaps the dreaded future 


Into the arms that have no joy 


Has less bitter than 1 think ; 


Like holding him in sleep ; 


The Lord may sweeten the waters 




Before I stoop to drink, 


And looking upward to thy face, 


Or, if Marah must be Marah, 


So gentle, sweet, and strong, 


He will stand beside its brink. 


In all its looks for those who love. 




So pitiful of wrong. 


It may be he keeps waiting 




Till the coming of my feet 


I pray thee turn me not away. 


Some gift of such rare blessedness, 


For, sinful though I be, 


Some joy so strangely sweet. 


Thou knowest everything I need, 


That my lips shall only tremble 


And all my need of thee. 


With the thanks they cannot speak. 






And yet the spirit in my heart 


restful, blissful ignorance ! 


Says, Wherefore should I pray 


'T is blessed not to know, 


That thou shouldst seek me with thy love. 


It holds me in those mighty arms 


Since thou dost seek alway ; 


Which will not let me go. 


And hushes my soul to rest 


And dost not even wait until 


On the bosoui which loves me so ! 


I urge my steps to thee ; 




But in the darkness of my life 


So I go on not knowing; 


Art coming still to me ? 


I would not if I might ; 




I would rather walk in the dark with 


I pray not, then, because I would ; 


God, 


I pray because I must ; 


Than go alone in the light ; 


There is no meaning in my prayer 


I would rather walk with Him by faith. 


But thankfulness and trust. 


Than walk alone by sight. 






I would not have thee otherwise 


My heart shrinks back from trials 


Than what thou ever art : 


Which the future may disclose, 


Be still thyself, and then I know 


Yet I never had a sorrow- 


We cannot live apart. 


But what the dear Lord chose ; 




So I send the coming tears back, 


But still thy love will beckon me, 


With the whispered word, *' He 


And still thy strength will come. 


knows." 


In many ways to bear me up 




And bring me to my home. 




And thou wilt hear the thought I mean, 




And not the words I say ; 


JOHN W. CHADA¥ICK. 


Wilt hear the thanks among the words 




That only seem to pray ; 


[U. S. A.] 


As if thou wert not always good. 


A SONG OF TRUST. 


As if thy loving care 




Could ever miss me in the midst 


Love Divine, of all that is 


Of this thy temple fair. 


The sweetest still and best, 




Fain would I come and rest to-night 


For, if I ever doubted thee. 


Upon thy tender breast ; 


How could I any more ! 



PAUL H. HAYNE. 



309 



This very night my tossing hark 
Has reached the happy shore ; 

And still, for all my sighs, my heart 

Has sung itself to rest, 
Love Divine, most far and near, 

Ujion thy tender breast. 



PAUL H. HAYNE. 

[U. S. A.] 

PRE-EXISTENCE. 

"While sauntering through the crowded 

street, 
Some half-remembered face I meet, 

Albeit upon no mortal shore 

That face, methinks, has smiled before. 

Lost in a gay and festal throng, 
I tremble at some tender song, — 

Set to an air whose golden bars 
I must have heard in other stars. 

In sacred aisles I pause to share 
The blessings of a priestly prayer, — 

When the whole scene which greets mine 

eyes 
In some strange mode I recognize 

As one whose every mystic part 
I feel prefigured in my heart. 

At sunset, as I calmly stand, 
A stranger on an alien strand, 

Familiar as my childhood's home 
Seems the long stretch of wave and foam. 

One sails toward me o'er the bay. 
And what he comes to do and say 

I can foretell. A prescient lore 
Springs from some life outlived of yore. 

swift, instinctive, startling gleams 
Of deep. soul-knowledge ! not as dreams 

For aye ye vaguely dawn and die, 
But oft with lightning certainty 



Pierce through the dark, oblivious brain. 
To make old thoughts and memories 
plain, — 

Thoughts which perchance must travel 

back 
Across the wild, bewildering track 

Of countless aeons ; memories far, 
High-reaching as yon pallid star. 

Unknown, scarce seen whose flickering 

grace 
Faints on the outmost rings of space ! 



FROM THE WOODS. 

Why should I, with a mournful, morbid 

spleen, 
Lament that here, in this half-desert 
scene. 
My lot is placed? 
At least the poet-winds are bold and 

loud, ■ — 
At least the sunset glorifies the cloud. 
And forests old and proud 
Rustle their verdurous banners o'er the 
waste. 



Perchance 't is best that I, whose Fate's 

eclipse 
Seems final, — I, whose sluggish life- 
wave slips 
Languid away, — 
Should here, within these lowly walks, 

apart 
From the fierce throbbings of the pop- 
ulous mart, 
Commune with mine own heart. 
While Wisdom blooms from buried 
Hope's decay. 

Nature, though wild her forais, sus- 
tains me still ; 
The founts are musical, — the barren 
hill 
Glows with strange lights ; 
Through solenni j)ine -groves the small 

rivulets fleet 
Sparkling, as if a Naiad's silvery feet. 
In quick and coy retreat. 
Glanced through the star-gleams on calm 
summer nights ; 



310 



SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 



And the great sky, the royal heaven 

above, 
Darkens with storms or melts in lines 
of love ; 
While far remote, 
Just where the sunlight smites the 

woods with fire, 
"Wakens tlie multitudinous sylvan 
clioir ; 
Their innocent love's desire 
Poured in a rill of song from each har- 
monious throat. 

My M'alls are crumbling, but immortal 

looks 
Smile on me licre from faces of rare 
books : 
Shakespeare consoles 
Myheartwitiitruephilosophies ; abalm 
Of spiritual dews from humbler song 
or psahn 
Fills me with tender calm, 
Or throngh huslied heavens of soul Mil- 
ton's deep thunder rolls ! 

And more than all, o'er shattered 

wrecks of Fate, 
The relics of a happier time and state, 

My nobler life 
Shines on unquenched ! O deathless 

love that lies 
In the clear midnight of those passion- 
ate eyes ! 
Joy waneth ! Fortune flies ! 
What then ? Thou still ai't here, soul of 
my soul, my Wife ! 



ISA CRAIG KNOX. 



BALLAD OF THE BRmES OF QXJAIR. 

A STILLNESS crept about the house, 
At even fall, in noontide glare ; 

Upon the silent hills looked forth 
The many-windowed House of Quair. 

The peacock on the terrace screamed ; 

Browsed on the lawn the timid hare ; 
The great trees grew i' the avenue. 

Calm by the sheltered House of Quair. 

The pool was still ; around its brim 
The alders sickened all the air; 



There came no murmur from the streams. 
Though nigh flowed Leither, Tweed, 
and Quair. 

The days hold on their wonted pace. 
And men to court and camp repair, 

Their part to fill, of good or ill. 

While women keep the House of Quair. 

And one is clad in widow's weeds. 
And one is maiden-like and fair, 

And day by day they seek the paths 
About the lonely fields of Quair. 

To see the trout leap in the streams. 
The summer clouds reflected there, 

The maiden loves in pensive dreams 
To hang o'er silver Tweed and Quair. 

Within, in pall-black velvet clad, 
Sits stately in her oaken chair — 

A stately dame of ancient name — 
The mother of the House of Quair. 

Her daughter broiders by her side, 
With heavy drooping golden hair, 

And listens to her frequent plaint, — 
"III fare the brides that come to Quail. 

"For more than one hath lived in pine. 
And more than one hath died of care^ 

And more than one hath sorely sinned, 
Left lonely in the House of Quair. 

"Alas ! and ere thy father died 
1 had not in his heart a share. 

And now — may God forfend her ill — 
Thy brother brings his bride to Quair." 

She came ; they kissed her in the hall. 
They kissed her on the winding stair. 

They led her to the chamber high. 
The fairest in the House of Quair. 

They bade her from the window look, 
And mark the scene how passing fair, 

Among whose ways the quiet days 
Would linger o'er the wife of Quair. 

"'T is fair," she said on looking forth, 
"But what although 't were bleak and 
bare — " 

She looked the love she did not speak, 
Antl broke the ancient curse of Quair. 

"Where'er he dwells, where'er he goes, 
His dangers and his toils I share." 

What need be said, — she was not one 
Of the ill-fated brides of Quair. 



HENRY TIMROD. — WALTER F. MITCHELL. 



311 



HENRY TIMROD. 

[U. S. A.] 

SPRING IN CAROLINA. 

Spring, with that nameless pathos in the 

air 
Which dwells with all things fair, 
Spring, with her golden suns and silver 

rain, 
Is with us once again. 

Out in the lonely woods the jasmine burns 
Its fragrant lamps, and turns 
Into a royal court with green festoons 
The banks of dark lagoons. 

In the deep heart of every forest tree 

The blood is all aglee. 

And there 's a look about the leafless 

bowers 
As if they dreamed of flowers. 

Yet still on every side we trace the hand 

Of Winter in the land. 

Save where the maple reddens on the 

lawn, 
Flushed by the season's dawn ; 

Or where, like those strange semblances 

we find 
That age to childhood bind. 
The elm puts on, as if in Nature's scorn, 
The brown of autumn corn. 

As yet the turf is dark, although you 

know 
That, not a span below, 
A thousand germs are groping through 

the gloom. 
And soon will burst their tomb. 

In gardens you may note amid thedearth, 

The crocus breaking earth ; 

And near the snowdrop's tender white 

and green. 
The violet in its screen. 

But many gleams and shadows need must 

pass 
Along the budding grass. 
And weeks go by, before the enamored 

South 
Shall kiss the rose's mouth. 



Still there 's a sense of blossoms yet un- 
born 
In the sweet airs of morn ; 
One almost looks to see the very street 
Grow purple at his feet. 

At times a fragrant breeze comes floating 

by, 
And brings, you know not why, 
A feeling as when eager crowds await 
Before a palace gate 

Some wondrous pageant ; and you scarce 

would start. 
If from a beech's heart, 
A blue-eyed Dryad, stepping forth, should 

say, 
"Behold me ! I am May !" 



WALTER F. MITCHELL. 

[U. S. A.] 

TACKING SHIP OFF SHORE. 

The weather-leech of the topsail shivers, 
The bow-lines strain, and the lee-shrouds 

slacken, 
The braces are taut, the lithe boom quivers, 
And the waves with the coming squall- 
cloud blacken. 

Open one point on the weather-bow. 

Is the lighthouse tall on Fire Island 

Head? 
There 's a shade of doubt on tlie captain's 

brow. 
And the pilot watches the heaving lead. 

I stand at the wheel, and with eager eye, 
To sea and to sky and to shore I gaze. 
Till the muttered order of "i^«i?^ andby!" 
Is suddenly changed iov"Full/o7- stays!" 

The ship bends lower before the breeze. 
As her broadside fair to the blastshelays ; 
And she swifter springs to the rising seas, 
As the pilot calls, "Stand by for stays!" 

It is silence all, as each in his place, 
With the gathered coil in his hardened 

hands, 
By tack and bowline, by sheet and brace. 
Waiting the watchword impatient stands. 



312 



SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 



And the light on Fire Island Head draws 

near, 
As, trumpet- winged, the pilot's shout 
From his post on the bowsprit's heel I 

hear, 
AVith the welcome call of, "Ready! 

About!" 

No time to spare ! It is touch and go ; 

And the captain growls, "Down, helm! 
hard down ! " 

As my weight on the whirling spokes I 
throw. 

While heaven grows black with the storm- 
cloud's frown. 

High o'er the knight-heads flies the spray, 
As we meet the shock of the plunging 

sea; 
And my shoulder stiff to the wheel I lay. 
As I answer, "Ay, ay, sir! Ha-a-rd a 

led" 

With the swerving leap of a startled steed 
The ship flies fast in the eye of the wind. 
The dangerous shoals on the lee recede. 
And the headland white we have left 
behind. 

The topsails flutter, the jibs collapse. 
And belly and tug at the groaning" cleats ; 
The spanker slats, and the mainsail flaps ; 
And thunders the order, "Tacks and 
sheets!" 

Mid the rattle of blocks and the tramp 

of the crew. 
Hisses the rain of the rushing squall : 
The sails are aback from clew to clew, 
And now is the moment for, "Mainsail, 

haul!" 

And the heavy yards, like a baby's toy, 
By fifty sti'ong arms are swiftly swung : 
She holds her way, and I look with joy 
For the first white spray o'er the bulwarks 
flung. 

"Let go, and haul!" 'T is the last com- 
mand, 

And the head-sails fill to the blast once 
more; 

Astern and to leeward lies the land, 

With its breakers white on the shingly 
shore. 



What matters the reef, or the rain, or the 

squall ? 
I steady the helm for the open sea ; 
The first mate clamors, "Belay there, 

all!" 
And the captain's breath once more comes 

free. 

And so off" shore let the good sliip fly ; 
Little care I how the gusts may blow, 
In my fo'castle bunk, in a jacket dry, 
Eight bells have struck, and my watch is 
below. 



HARRIET PRESCOTT SPOFFORD. 



HEREAFTER. 

Love, when all these years are silent, 

vanished quite and laid to rest. 
When you and I are sleeping, folded 

breathless breast to breast. 
When no moirow is before us, and the 

long grass tosses o'er us. 
And our grave remains forgotten, or by 

alien footsteps 



Still that love of ours will linger, that 

great love enrich the earth. 
Sunshine in the heavenly azure, breezes 

blowing joyous mirth ; . 
Fragrance fanning off from flowers, 

melody of summer showers, 
Sparkle of the spicy wood-fires round the 

happy autumn hearth. 

That 's our love. But you and I, dear, 

— shall we linger with it yet. 
Mingled in one dewdrop, tangled in one 

sunbeam's golden net, — 
On the violet's purple bosom, I the 

sheen, but you the blossom. 
Stream on sunset winds and be the haze 

with which some hill is wet ? 

Or, beloved, — if ascending, — when we 

have endowed the world 
With the best bloom of our being, whither 

will our way be whirled. 
Through what vast and starry spaces, 

toward what awful holy places. 
With a white light on our faces, spirit 

over spirit furled? 



WILLIAM WINTER. — JOAQUIN MILLER. 



313 



Only this our yearning answers, — wliere- 

so'er tliat way defile, 
Not a film shall part us through the seons 

of that mighty while, 
In the fair eternal weather, even as 

phantoms still together. 
Floating, fioating, one forever, in the 

light of God's great smile ! 



SONG. 

In the summer twilight. 

While yet the dew was hoar, 
I went i)lucking purple pansies 

Till my love should come to shore. 
The fishing-lights their dances 

Were keeping out at sea, 
And, "Come," I sang, "my true love, 

Come hasten home to me !" 

But the sea it fell a-mnaning. 

And the white gulls rocked thereon, 
Andtheyoungmoon dropped from heaven, 

And the lights hid, one by one. 
All silently their glances 

Slipped down the cruel sea, 
And, "Wait," cried the night and wind 
and storm, — 

"Wait till I come to thee." 



WILLIAM WINTER. 

[U. S. A.] 

AZRAEL. 

CoMEwith a smile, when come thou must, 
Evangel of the world to be. 

And touch and glorify this dust, — 
This shuddering dust that nowis me, — 
And from this prison set me free ! 

Long in those awful eyes T quail, 
That gaze across the grim profound : 

Upon that sea there is no sail, 
Nor any light, nor any sound. 
From the far shore that girds it round. 

Only — two still and steady rays. 

That those twin orbs of doom o'ertop ; 

Only — a quiet, patient gaze 

That drinks my being, drop by drop. 
And bids the pulse of nature stop. 



Come with a smile, auspicious friend, 
To usher in the eternal day ! 

Of these weak terrors make an end. 
And charm the paltry chains away 
That bind me to this timorous clay ! 

And let me know my soul akin 
To sunrise and the winds of mom, 

And every grandeur that has been 
Since this all-glorious world was born, 
Nor longer droop in my own scorn. 

Come, when the way grows dark and chill, 
Come, when the baflfled mind is weak. 

And in the heart that voice is still 
Which used in happier days to speak, 
Or only whispers sadly meek. 

Come with a smile that dims the sun ! 
With pitying heart and gentle hand ! 

And waft me, from a work that 's done, 
To peace that waits on tliy command, 
In God's mysterious better land ! 



JOAQUIN MILLER. 

[U. S. A.] 

FROM "WALKER IN NICARAGUA." 

Success had made him more than king; 

Defeat made him the vilest thing 

In name, contempt or hate can bring : 

So much the loaded dice of war 

Do make or mar of character. 

Speak ill who will of liim, he died 

In all disgrace; say of the dead 

His heart was black, his hands were 

red, — 
Say this much, and be satisfied. 

I lay this crude wreath on his dust, 
Inwove with sad, sweet memories 
Recalled here by these colder seas. 
I leave the wild bird with his tiust. 
To sing and say him nothing wrong ; 
I wake no rivalry of song. 

He lies low in the levelled sand, 
Unsheltered from the trojiic sun, 
And now of all he knew, not one 
Will speak him fair, in that far land. 
Perhaps 't was this that made me seek, 
Disguised, his grave one winter-tide ; 



314 



SONGS OF THKEE CENTURIES. 



A weakness for the weaker side, 
A siding with the helpless weak. 

A palm not far held out a hand; 
Hard by a long green bamboo swung, 
And bent like some great bow unstrung, 
And quivered like a willow wand; 
Beneath a broad banana's leaf, 
Perched on its fruits that crooked hung, 
A bird in rainbow splendor sung 
A low, sad song of tempered grief. 

No sod, no sign, no cross nor stone, 
But at his side a cactus green 
Upheld its lances long and keen ; 
It stood in hot red sands alone. 
Flat-palmed and tierce with lifted spears ; 
One bloom of crimson crowned its head, 
A drop of blood, so bright, so red, 
Yet redolent as roses' tears. 
In my left hand I held a shell. 
All rosy lipped and pearly red; 
I laid it by his lowly bed. 
For he did love so passing well 
The grand songs of the solemn sea. 

shell ! sing well, wild, with a will. 
When storms blow hard and birds be still, 
The wildest sea-song known to thee ! 

1 said some things, with folded hands, 
Soft whispered in the dim sea-sound. 
And eyes held humbly to the ground. 
And frail knees sunken in the sands. 
He had done more than this for me, 
And yet I could not well do more : 

1 turned me down the olive shore, 
And set a sad face to the sea. 



SUNRISE IN VENICE. 

Night seems troubled and scarce asleep ; 
Her brows are gathered in broken rest ; 
Sullen old lion of dark St. Mark, 
And a star in the east starts up from the 

deep ; 
White as my lilies that grow in the west. 
Hist ! men are passing hurriedly. 
I see the yellow wide wings of a bark 
Sail silently over my morning-star. 
I see men move in the moving dark, 
Tall and silent as columns are, — 
Great sinewy men that are good to see, 
With hair pushed back and with open 

breasts ; 
Barefooted fishermen seeking their boats. 
Brown as walnuts and hairy as goats, — 



Brave old water-dogs, wed to the sea. 
First to their labors and last to their rests. 

Ships are moving ! I hear a horn ; 
A silver trumpet it sounds to me. 
Deep-voiced and musical, far a-sea . . . 
Answers back, and again it calls. 
'T isthesentinel boats that watch the town 
All night, as mounting her watery walls, 
And watching for pirate or smuggler. 

Down 
Over the sea, and reaching away. 
And against the east, a soft light falls, — 
Silvery soft as the mist of morn, 
And I catch a breath like the breath of 

day. 

The east is blossoming ! Yea, a rose, 
Vast as the heavens, soft as a kiss. 
Sweet as the presence of woman is. 
Rises and reaches and widens and grows 
Right out of the sea, as a blossoming tree ; 
Richer and richer, so higher and higher, 
Deeper and deeper it takes its hue ; 
Brighter and brighter it reaches through 
The space of heaven and the place of stars. 
Till all is as rich as a rose can be. 
And my rose-leaves fall into billows of fire. 
Then beams reach upward as arms from 

a sea ; 
Then lances and arrows are aimed at me. 
Then lances and spangles and spars and 

bars 
Are broken and shivered and strown on 

the sea; 
And around and about me tower and spire 
Start from the billows like tongues of fire. 



UNKNOWN. 



DIFFERENT POINTS OF VIEW. 

Saith the white owl to the martin folk, 
In the belfry tower so grim and gray : 

"Why do they deafen us with these bells ? 
Is any one dead or born to-day?" 

A martin peeped over the rim of its nest. 
And answered crossly: "Why, ain't 
you heard 
That an heir is coming to the great 
estate?" 
"I 'aven't," the owl said, "'pon my 
word." 



ANNA BOYNTON AVERILL. 



315 



"Are men born so, with that white cock- 
ade?" 
Said the little field-mouse to the old 
brown rat. 
"Why, you silly child," the sage replied, 
"This is the bridegi-oom, — they know 
him by that." 

Saith the snail so snug in his dappled shell. 
Slowly stretching one cautious horn. 

As the beetle was hurrying by so brisk. 
Much to his snailship's inward scorn : 

"Why does that creature ride by so fast ? 
Has a tire broke out to the east or 
west?" 
"Your Grace, he rides to the wedding- 
feast, " — 
"Let the madman go. What I want 's 
rest." 

The swallows around the woodman 
skimmed. 

Poising and turning on flashing wing ; 
One said : " Howliveththislumpof earth ? 

in the air, he can neither soar norspring. 

"Over the meadows we sweep and dart, 

Down with the flowers, or up iu the 

skies ; 

While these poor lumberers toil and slave, 

Half starved, for how can they catch 

their flics?" 

Quoth the dry-rot worm to his artisans 
In the carpenter's shop, as they bored 
away : 
"Hark to the sound of the saw and file ! 
What are these creatures at work at, — 
say?" 

From his covered passage a worm looked 

out, 

And eyed the beings so busy o'erhead : 

"I scarcely know, my lord ; but I think 

They 're making a box to bury their 

dead!" 

Says a butterfly with his wings of blue 
All in a flutter of careless joy. 

As he talks to a dragon-fly over a flower: 
' ' Ours is a life, sii-, with no alloy. 

"What are those black things, row and 
row, 

Winding alongby the new-mown hay ?" 
"That is a funeral," says the fly : 

"The carpenter buries his sou to-day." 



ANNA BOYNTON AVERILL. 

[U. S. A.] 

BIRCH STREAM. 

At noon, within the dusty town, 
Where the wild river rushes down. 

And thunders hoarsely all day long, 
I think of thee, my hermit stream. 
Low singing in thy summer dream, 

Thine idle, sweet, old, tranquil song. 

Northward, Katahdin's chasmed pile 
Looms through thy low, long, leafy aisle. 

Eastward, Olamon's summit shines ; 
And I upon thy grassy shore. 
The dreamful, happy child of yore. 

Worship before mine olden shrines. 

Again the sultry noontide hush 
Is sweetly broken by the thrush. 

Whose clear bell rings and dies away 
Beside thy banks, in coverts deep. 
Where nodding buds of orchis sleep 

In dusk, and dream not it is day. 

Again the wild cow-lily floats 
Her golden-freighted, tented boats. 

In thy cool coves of softened gloom, 
O'ershadowed by the whispering reed. 
And ])urple jilumes of pickerel-weed. 

And meadow-sweet in tangled bloom. 



The startled minnows dart in flocks 
Beneath thy glimmering amber rocks, 

If but a zephyr stirs the brake ; 
The silent swallow swoops, a flash 
Of light, and leaves, with dainty plash, 

A ring of ripples in her wake. 

— Without, the land is hot and dim ; 
The level fields in languor swim. 

Their stubble-grasses brown as dust ; 
And all along the upland lanes. 
Where shadeless noon oppressive reigns, 

Dead roses wear their crowns of rust. 



Within, is neither blight nor death. 
The fierce sun woos with ardent breath, 

But cannot win thy sylvan heart. 
Only the child w-ho loves thee long. 
With faithful worship pure and strong. 

Can know how- dear and sweet thou art. 



316 



SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 



So loved I thee in clays gone by, 

So love I yet, though leagues may lie 

Between us, and the years divide; — 
A breath of coolness, dawn, and dew, - 
A joy forever fresh and true. 

Thy memory doth with me abide. 



KATE PUTNAM OSGOOD. 

[U. S. A.] 

DRIVING HOME THE COWS. 

Out of the clover and blue-eyed grass 
He turned them into the river lane; 

One after another he let them pass, 
Then fastened the meadow bars again. 

Under the willows, and over the hill. 
He patiently followed their sober pace ; 

The merry whistle for once was still. 
And something shadowed the sunny 
face. 

Only a boy ! and his father had said 
He never could let his youngest go ; 

Two already were lying dead, 

Under the feet of the trampling foe. 

But after the evening work was done. 
And the frogs were loud in the mead- 
ow-swamp. 
Over his shoulder he slung his gun, 
And stealthily followed the footpath 
damp. 

Across the clover, and through the wheat. 
With resolute heart and purpose grim. 
Though cold was the dew on his hurry- 
ing feet. 
And the blind bat's flitting startled 
him. 

Thrice since then had the lanesbeen white. 
And the orchards sweet with apple- 
bloom ; 
And now, when the cows came back at 
night. 
The feeble father drove them home. 

For news had come to the lonely farm 
That three were lying where two had 
lain ; 
And the old man's tremulous, palsied 
arm 
Could never lean on a son's again. 



The summer day grew cool and late : 
He went for the cows when the work 
was done ; 

But down the lane, as he opened the gate, 
He saw them coming, one by one : 

Brindle, Ebony, Speckle, and Bess, 
Shaking their horns in the evening 
wind ; 
Cropping the buttercups out of the 
grass, — 
But who was it following close behind ? 



Loosely swung in the idle air 
The empty sleeve of army blue ; 

And worn and pale, from the crisping 
hair. 
Looked out a face that the father knew. 

For Southern prisons will sometimes 
yawn. 
And jdeld their dead unto life again : 
And the day that comes with a cloudy 
dawn 
In golden glory at last may wane. 

The great tears sprang to their meeting 
eyes ; 
For tiie heart must speak when the 
lips are dumb : 
And under the silent evening skies 
Together they followed the cattle home. 



LIZZIE G. PAEKER. 

[U. S. A.] 

WAITING. 

For a foot that will not come. 
For a song that will not sound, 

I hearken, wait and moan alway, 
And weary months go round. 

Kever again in the world 
Shall that lost footstep be ; 

Nor sea, nor bird, nor reedy wind 
Can match that song to me. 

But in the chants of heaven. 
And down the golden street, 

My heart shall single out that song 
And know that touch of feet. 



UNKNOWN. 



317 



UNKNOWN. 



THE SECRET OF DEATH. 

"She is dead ! " they said to him. "Come 

away ; 
Kiss her and leave her, thy love is clay ! " 

They smoothed her tresses of dark brown 

hair ; 
On her forehead of stone they laid it fair ; 

Over her eyes which gazed too much, 
They drew the lids with a gentle touch ; 

With a tender touch they closed up well 
The sweet, thin lips that had secrets to 
tell; 

About her brows and beaiitiful face 
They tied her veil and her marriage-lace. 

And drew on her white feet her white 

silk shoes ; 
Which were the whitest no eye could 

choose ; 

And over her bosom they crossed her 
hands, — 

"Come awaj'," they said, "God under- 
stands!" 

But there was a silence, and nothingthere 
But silence, and scents of eglantare. 

And jessamine and roses, and rosemary. 
And they said, "As a lady should lie, 
lies she." 

And they held their breath as they left 

the room 
With a shudder, to glance at its stillness 

and gloom. 

But he who loved her too well to dread 
The sweet, the stately, and the beautiful 
dead, 

He lit his lamp and took the key 

And turned it. Alone again — heand she. 

He and she ; yet she would not speak. 
Though he kissed, in the old place, the 
quiet cheek. 

He and she ; yet thej' would not smile, 
Though he called her the name she loved 
erewhile. 



He and she ; still she did not move 
To any one passionate whisper of love. 

Then he said : ' ' Cold lips, and breast 

without breath ! 
Is there no voice ! no language of death ? 

"Dumb to the ear and still to the sense. 
But to heart and soul distinct, intense ? 

"See now ; I will listen with soul, not ear; 
What was the secret of dying, dear ? 

"Was it the infinite wonder of all 
That you ever could let life's flower fall ? 

"Or was it a greater marvel to feel 
The perfect calm o'er the agony steal ? 

"Was the miracle deeper to find how deep, 
Beyond all dreams, sank downward that 
sleep ? 

"Did life roll back its record, dear. 
And show, as they say it does, past things 
clear ? 

' ' perfect dead ! dead most dear, 
I hold the breath of my soul to hear, 

"I listen, as deep as to horrible hell, 
As high as to heaven, and you do not tell ! 

"There must be a pleasurein dying, sweet. 
To make you so placid from head to feet ! 

"I would tell you, darling, if I were dead. 
And 't were your hot tears upon my brow 
shed ; 

"I would say, though the angel of death 

had laid 
His sword on my lips to keep it unsaid. 

"You should not ask vainly, with stream- 
ing eyes. 

Which of ail death's was the chief sur- 
prise ! 

"The very strangest and suddenest thing. 
Of all the surprises that dying must 
bring." 

Ah, foolish world ! most kind dead ! 
Though he told me, who will believe it 

was said ? 



318 



SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 



Who will believe what he heard her say, 
With a sweet, soft voice, in the dear old 
way? 

"The utmost wonder is this, — I hear, 
And see you, and love you, and kiss you, 
dear. 

"And am your angel, who was your bride. 
And know that, though dead, I have 
never died." 



JOHN A. DORGAN. 



[U. S. A.] 



FATE. 



These withered hands are weak. 

But they shall do my bidding, though 
so frail ; 
These lips are thin and white, but shall 
not fail 
The appointed words to speak. 

Thy sneer I can forgive, 

Because I know the strength of destiny ; 
Until my task is done, I cannot die ; 

And then, I would not live. 



MARY BOLLES BRANCH. 

[U. S. A.] 

THE PETRIFIED FERN. 

In a valley, centuries ago, 

Grew a little fern-leaf, green and 

slender, 
Veining delicate and fibres tender ; 
Waving when the wind crept down so 

low; 
Kushes tall, and moss, and grass grew 

round it. 
Playful sunbeams darted in and found 

it. 
Drops of dew stole in by night, and 

crowned it. 
But no foot of man e'er trod that 

way; 
Earth was young and keeping holiday. 



Monster fishes swam the silent main, 

Stately forests waved their giant 
branches. 

Mountains hurled their snowy ava- 
lanches. 
Mammoth creatures stalked across the 
plain ; 

Nature revelled in grand mysteries ; 

But the little fern was not of these. 

Did not number with the hills and 
trees. 

Only grew and waved its wild sweet 
way, 

No one came to note it day by day. 

Earth, one time, put on a frolic mood. 
Heaved the rocks and changed the 

mighty motion 
Of the deep, strong currents of the 

ocean ; 
Moved the plain and shook the haughty 

wood. 
Crushed the little fern in soft moist 

clay. 
Covered it, and hid it safe away. 
0, the long, long centuries since that 

day ! 
0, the agony, 0, life's bitter cost. 
Since that useless little fern Avas lost ! 

Useless ! Lost ! There came a thought- 
ful man 

Searching Nature's secrets, far and 
deep; 

From a fissure in a rocky steep 
He withdrew a stone, o'er which there 
ran 

Fairy pencillings, a quaint design, 

Veinings leafage, fibres clear and fine, 

And the fern's life lay in every line ! 

So, I think, God hides some souls 
away. 

Sweetly to surprise us the last day. 



UNKNOWN. 

■UNSEEN. 

At the spring of an arch in tlie great 
north tower, 
High up on the wall, is an angel's 
head ; 
And beneath it is carved a lily flower. 
With delicate wings at the side out- 
spread. 



HARRIET 0. NELSON. 



:19 



They say that the sculjitor wrought from 
the face 
Of his youth's lost love, of his prom- 
ised bride, 
And when he had added the last sad 
grace 
To the features, he dropped his chisel 
and died. 

And the worshippers throng to the shrine 
below. 
And the sight-seers come with their 
curious eyes, 
But deep in the shadow, where none 
may know 
Its beauty, the gem of his carving lies. 

Yet at early morn on a midsummer's 
day, 
When the sun is far to the north, for 
the space 
Of a few short minutes, there falls a ray 
Through an amber pane on the angel's 
face. 

It was wrought for the eye of God, and 
it seems 
That he blesses the work of the dead 
man's hand 
With a ray of the golden light that 
streams 
On the lost that are found in the 
deathless land. 



HARRIET 0. NELSON. 

[U. S. A.] 

THE QUIET MEETING. 

Dear friend of old, whom memory links 
With sunny hour and summer weather. 

Do you with me remember yet 
That Sabbath morn together. 

When straying from our wonted ways. 
From prayer and song and priestly 
teacher. 
Those kind, sweet helps by which the 
Lord 
"Stoops to his yearning creature. 

And led by some faint sense of need 
Which each in each perceived unut- 
tered, 



Some craving for an unknown good. 
That in the spirit fluttered, 

Our footsteps sought the humble house 
Unmarked by cross or towering steeple. 

Where for their First-day gathering came 
God's plain and simple people ? 

The air was soft, the sky was large, 
The grass as gay with golden flowers 

As if the last night's sky had fallen 
On earth in starry showers. 

And, as we walked, the apple-trees 
Shed their late bloom for every comer; 

Our souls drank deep of joy and peace, 
For it was youth and summer. 

Yet through the doorway, rude and low, 
The plain -robed folk we followed after, 

Our steps, like theirs, demure and slow, 
Our lips as free from la ighter. 

We sat apart, but still were near 
As souls may draw unto each other 

Who seek through stronger love to God 
A nobler love to brother. 

How deep the common silence was ; 

How pure and sweet those woman faces, 
Which patience, gentleness, and peace 

Had stamped with heavenly graces. 

No noise of prayer came through the hush, 
No praise sang through the portals 
lowly, 

Save merry bird-songs from without, 
And even those seemed holy. 

Then daily toil was glorified. 

And love was something rarer, finer ; 

The whole earth, sanctified through 
Christ, 
And human life, diviner. 

And when at length, by lips of age. 
The silent hour was fitly broken. 

Our hearts found echo in the words 
From wise experience spoken. 

Then at the elder's clasp of hand 

We rose and met beneath the portal ; 

Some earthly dust our lives had lost. 
And something gained immortal. 

Since then, when sermon, psalm, and rite, 
And solemn organ's tuneful pealing, 



320 



SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 



All fail to raise my sluggish sense 
To higher thought and feeling, 

My mind goes back the winding track 
Of years whose flight hath leftmelonel}', 

Once" more my soul is upward drawn, 
And hears the sjurit only. 



W. J. LINTON. 



MIDWINTER. 

Midwinter comes to-morrow 

My welcome guest to be ; 
White-haired, wide-winged sorrow, 

With Christmas gifts for me. 
Thy angel, God ! — I thank thee still, 
Thy will be done, thy better will ! 

I thank thee. Lord! — the whiteness 

Of winter on my heart 
Shall keep some glint of brightness, 

Though sun and stars depart. 
Thou smilest on the snow ; thy will 
Is dread and drear, but lovely still. 



DEFINITIONS. 



The perfect sight of duty ; thought which 

moulds 
A rounded life, and its true aims beholds. 

REVERENCE. 

Obeisance unto greatness understood ; 
The first step of a human life toward good. 



Think what God doth for man ; so mayst 

thou know 
How godlike service is, and serve also. 



DESPAIR, 

The shadow of a slave who turns his hack 



DOUBT. 

image trembling in the 



The mountain 

lake: 
Look up. Perhaps the mountain does 

not quake. 



One of the stairs to heaven. Halt not 

to count 
What you have trampled on. Look up, 

and mount. 



Who knows? — Each year, as does the 

wheat-seed, dies ; 
And so God harvests his eternities. 



FORGIVENESS. 

The condonation of a wrong. What 

then? 
Even the wrong-doers are our brother- 



OBSTINACY. 

A mule with blinkers. Ay, he goes quite 

straight, 
Runs at the gate-post, and will miss the 

gate. 

PRUDENCE. 

The saddle-girth of valor. Thou art wise 
To gird it well, but not around thy eyes. 



PATRIOTISM. 

Xot the mere holding a great flag un- 
furled. 

But making it the goodliest in the 
world. 



NARROWNESS. 

Be narrow ! — as the bud, the flame, the 

dart; 
But naiTow in thy aim, not at thy heart. 



Cornelia's jewels ; blind old Milton's 
thought ; 
On the light, and cries, "The universe 'Job's patience; and the lesson Lazania 



is black ! " 



taught. 




"Midwinter comes to-morrow." — Page 320. 



MAEGARET J. PRESTON. — ERASTUS W. ELLSWORTH. 



321 



MARGARET J. PRESTON. 

[U. S. A.] 

READY. 

I WOULD be ready, Lord, 

My house in order set, 
None of the work thou gavest me 

To do, unfinished yet. 

I would be watching, Lord, 

With lamp well trimmed and clear, 
Quick to throw open wide the door, 

What time thou drawest near. 

I would be waiting. Lord, 

Because I cannot know 
If in the night or morning watch, 

I may be called to go. 

I would be working, Lord, 
Each day, each hour, for thee ; 

Assured that thus I wait thee well. 
Whene'er thy coming be. 

I would he living, Lord, 

As ever in thine eye ; 
For whoso lives the nearest thee 

The fittest is to die. 



A BIRD'S MINISTRY. 

From his home in an Eastern bungalow, 

In sight of the everlasting snow 

Of the grand Himalayas, row on row. 

Thus wrote my friend : — 

"I had travelled far 
From the Afghan towers of Candahar, 
Through the sand-white plains of Sinde- 
Sagar ; 

"Andonce, when the daily march waso'er. 

As tired I sat in my tented door, 

Hope failed me, as never it failed before. 

"In swarming city, at wayside fane, 
By the Indus' bank, on the scorching 

plain, 
I had taught, — and my teaching all 

seemed vain. 

" 'No glimmer of light (I sighed) appears ; 
The Moslem's Fate and the Buddhist's 
fears 

21 



Have gloomed thi-ir worship this thou- 
sand years. 

" 'For Christ and his truth I stand alone 
In the midst of millions: a sand-grain 

blown 
Against yon temple of ancient stone 

"'As soon may level it!' Faith forsook 
My soul, as I turned on the pile to look : 
Then rising, my saddened way I took 

"To its lofty roof, for the cooler air : 
I gazed, and marvelled ; — how crumbled 

were 
The walls I had deemed so firm and fair ! 

' ' For, wedged in a rift of the massive stone. 
Most plainly rent by its roots alone, 
A beautiful peepul-tree had grown : 

"Whose gradual stresswould still expand 
The crevice, and topple upon the sand 
The temple, while o'er its wreck should 
stand 

"The tree in its living verdure ! — Who 
Could compass the thought? — The bird 

that flew 
Hitherward, dropping a seed that grew, 

"Did more to shiver this ancient wall 
Than earthquake, — war, — simoon, — or 

all 
The centuries, in their lapse and fall ! 

" Then I knelt by the riven granite there. 
And my soul shook ofl" its weight of care, 
As my voice rose clear on the tropic air : — 

' ' ' The living seeds I have dropped remain 
In the cleft : Lord, quicken with dew and 

rain, 
TJien tem[ile and mosque shall be rent 

in twain!'" 



ERASTUS W. ELLSWORTH. 

[U. S. A.] 

WHAT IS THE USE? 

I RAW a man, by some accounted wise. 
For some things said and done before 
their eyes, 



322 



SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 



Quite overcast, and in a restless muse, 
Pacing a patli about. 
And often giving out : 
"What is the use?" 

Then I, with true respect : What meanest 

thou 
By those strange words, and that unset- 
tled brow ? 
Health, wealth, the fair esteem of amjile 
views, 
To these things thou art born 
But he, as one forlorn : 
"What is the use?" 

"I have surveyed the sages and their 

books, 
Man, and the natural world of woods and 

brooks, 
Seeking that perfect good that I would 
choose ; 
But find no perfect good, 
Settled and understood. 
What is the use? 

"Life, in a poise, hangs trembling on the 

beam, 
Even in a breath boundingto each extreme 
Of joy and sorrow; therefore I refuse 
All beaten ways of bliss, 
And only answer this : 
What is the use ? 

"The hoodwinked world is seeking hap- 

I)iness. 
'Which way!' they cry, 'here?' 'no!' 

'there?' 'who can guess?' 
And so they grope, and grope, and grope, 
and cruise 
On, on, till life is lost, 
At blindman's with a ghost. 
What is the use ? 

"Love first, with most, then wealth, dis- 
tinction, fame. 
Quicken the blood and spirit on the game. 
Some try them all, and all alike accuse : 
'I have been all,' said one, 
'And find that all is none.' 
What is the use ? 

"In woman's love we sweetly are undone. 
Willing to attract, but harder to be won, 
Hardertokeepisshe whose love we choose. 

Loves are like flowers that grow 

In soils on fire below. 
What is the use ? 



"Some pray for wealth, and seem to pray 

aright ; 
They heap until themselves are out of 

sight ; 
Yet stand, in charities, not over shoes, 
And ask of their old age 
As an old ledger page, 
What is the use ? . . . . 

"The strife for fame and the high praise 

of power. 
Is as a man, who, panting up a tower. 
Bears a great stone, then, straining all his 
thews, 
Heaves it, and sees it make 
A splashing in a lake. 
What is the use ? . . . . 

' ' Should some new star, in the fair even- 

ing sky. 
Kindle a blaze, startling so keen an eye 
Of ilamings eminent, athwart the dews. 
Our thoughts would say, No doubt 
That star will soon burn out. 
What is the use ? 

"Who'll care, for me, when I am dead 

and gone ? 
Not many now, and surely, soon, not one ; 
And sliould 1 sing like an immortal Muse, 
Men, if they read the line, 
Read for their good, not mine ; 
What is the use ? . . . . 

"Spirit of Beauty! Breath of golden 

lyres ! 
Perpetual tremble of immortal wires ! 
Divinely torturing rapture of the Muse ! 
Conspicuous wretchedness ! 
Thou starry, sole success ! — 
What is the use ? 

' ' Doth not all struggle tell, upon its brow. 
That he wlio makes it is not easy now, 
But hopes to be ? Vain hope that ilost 
abuse ! 
Coquetting with thine eyes, 
And fooling him who sighs. 
What is the use? 

"Go pry the lintels of the pyramids ; 
Lift the old kings' mysteriouscoifin -lids — 
This dust was theii's whose names these 
stones confuse. 
These mighty monuments 
Of niighty discontents. 
What is the use? 



EEASTUS \V. ELLSWORTH. 



323 



"Didnot he sum itall, whose Gateof Pearls 
Blazed royal Opliir, Tyre, and Syrian 

girls, — 
The great, wise, famous monarch of the 
Jews? 
Though rolled in grandeur vast, 
He said of all, at last : 
"What is the use ? 

"0, but to take, of life, the natural good, 
Even as a hermit caverned in a wood, 
More sweetly hlls my sober-suited views, 

Than sweating to attain 

Any luxurious pain. 
What is the use? 

"Give me a hermit's life, without his 

beads, — 
His lantern-jawed, and moral-mouthing 

creeds ; 
Systems and creeds the natural heart 
abuse. 
What need of any book, 
Or spiritual crook ? 
What is the use? 

"1 love, and God is love; and I behold 
Man, Nature, God, one triple chain of 

gold,— 
Nature in all sole oracle and muse. 
What should I seek, at all, 
More than is natural ? 
What is the use?" 

Seeing this man so heathenly inclined, — 
So wilted ill the mood of a good mind, 
I felt a kind of heat of earnest thought ; 
And studying in reply, 
Answered him, eye to ej'e: 

Thou dost amaze me that thou dost mis- 
take 
The wanderingi-iversforthe fountain lake. 
What is the end of living? — happiness? 

An end that none attain. 

Argues a purpose vain. 

Plainly, this world is not a scope for bliss. 
But duty. Yet we see not all that is. 
Or may be, some day, if we love the 
light. 
What man is, in desires. 
Whispers where man aspires. 

But what and where are we ? what now 
— to-day ? 



Souls on a globe that spins our lives 

away, — 
A multitudinous world, where Heaven 
and Hell, 
Strangely in battle met, 
Their gonfalons have set. 

Dust though we are, and shall return to 

dust. 
Yet being born to battles, fight we must ; 
Under which ensign is our only choice. 

We know to wage our best, 

God oidy knows the rest. 

Then since we see about us sin and dole, 
And some things good, why not, with 

hand and soul. 
Wrestle and succor out of wrong and 
sorrow, — 
Grasping the swords of strife. 
Making the most of life ? 

Yea, all thatwe can wield isworththe end. 
If sought as God's and man's most loyal 

friend. 
Naked we come into the world, and take 

Weapons of various skill, — 

Let us not use them ill. 

As for the creeds, Nature is dark at 

best ; 
And darker still is the deep human breast. 
Therefore consider well of creeds and 
books, 
Lest thou mayst somewhat fail 
Of things beyond the vail. 

Nature was dark to the dim starry age 

Of wistful Job : and that Athenian sage^ 

Pensive in piteous thought of Faith's 

di-stress ; 

For still she cried, with tears : 

"More light, ye crystal spheres !" 

But rouse thee, man ! Shake oft' thi.s 

hideous death ! 
Be man ! Stand up ! Draw in a mighty 

breath ! 
This world has quite enough emasculate 
hands. 
Dallying with doubt and sin. 
Come — here is work — begin ! 



Come, here is work — and a rank field — 

begin. 
Put thou thine edge to the great weeds 

of sin: 



324 



SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 



So slialt thou find the iise of life, and see 
Thy Lord, at set of sun. 
Approach and say, "Well done !" 

This at the last : They clutch the sapless 

fruit. 
Ashes and dust of the Dead Sea, who 

suit 
Their course of life to compass happiness ; 
But be it understood 
That, to be greatly good, 
All is the use. 



UNKNOWN. 

ABRAHAM LINCOLN. 

(From "The London Punch.") 

You lay a wreath on murdered Lincoln's 
bier. 
You, who with mocking pencil wont 
to trace, 
Broad for the self-complacent British 
sneer. 
His length of shambling limb, his fur- 
rowed face. 

His gaunt, gnarled hands, his unkempt, 
bristling hair, 
His garb uncouth, hisbearingill at ease. 
His lack of all we prize as debonair. 
Of power or will to shine, of art to 
please. 

You, whose smart pen backed up the 

pencil's laugh, 

Judging each step, as though the way 

were plain ; 

Eeckless, so it could point its paragraph, 

Of chiefs perplexity or people's pain. 

Beside this corpse, that bears for wind- 
ing-sheet 
The stars and stripes he lived to rear 
anew, 
Between the mourners at his head and 
feet, 
Say, scurril -jester, is there room for 
you? 

Yes, he had lived to shame me from my 
sneer, 
To lame my pencil, and confute my 
l^en, — 



To make me own this hind of princes 
peer. 
This rail-splitter a true-born king of 
men. 

My shallow judgment I had learned to rue, 

Noting how to occasion's height he rose, 

How his quaint wit made home-truth 

seem more true, 

How, iron-like, his temper grew by 

blows. 

How humble, yet how hopeful he could be : 
How in good fortune and in ill the 
same : 

Nor bitter in success, nor boastful he, 
Thirsty for gold, nor feverish for fame. 

He went about his work, — such work 
as few 
Ever had laid on head and heart and 
hand, — 
As one who knows, where there 's a task 
to do, 
Man's honest will must Heaven's good 
grace command; 

"Who trusts the strength will with the 
burden grow. 
That God makes instruments to work 
his will. 
If but that will we can arrive to know. 
Nor tamper Avith the weights of good 
and ill. 



So he went forth to battle on the side 
That he felt clear was Liberty's and 
Right's, 
As in his peasant boyhood he had plied 
His warfare with rude Nature's thwart- 
ing mights, — 

The uncleared forest, the unbroken soil. 
The iron bark that turns the lumberers 
axe, 
The rapid that o'erbears the boatman's 
toil, 
The prairie, hiding the mazed wander- 
er's tracks. 

The ambushed Indian, and the prowling 
bear, — 
Such were the needs that helped his 
youth to train : 



MRS. MILES. 



325 



Eougli culture, — but such trees large 
fruit may bear, 
If but their stocks be of right girth and 
grain. 

So he grew up, a destined work to do. 
And lived to do it ; four long-sufiering 
years' 
111 -fate, ill-feeling, ill -report, lived 
througli. 
And then he heard the hisses change 
to cheers. 

The taunts to tribute, the abuse to praise. 
And took both with the same unwaver- 
ing mood : 
Till, as he came on light, from darkling 
days, 
And seemed to touch the goal from 
where he stood, 

A felon had, between the goal and him, 
Keached from behind his back, atrigger 
prest, — 
And those perplexed and patient eyes 
were dim. 
Those gaunt, long-laboring limbs were 
laid to rest ! 

The words of mercy were upon his lips. 
Forgiveness in his heart and on his pen, 
When this vile murderer brought swift 
eclipse 
To thoughts of peace on earth, good- 
will to men. 

The Old World and the New, from sea 
to sea. 
Utter one voice of sympathy and 
shame! 
Sore heart, so stopped when it at last 
beat high ; 
Sad life, cut short just as its triumph 
came. 

A deed accurst ! Strokes have been struck 
before 
By the assassin's hand, whereof men 
doubt 
If more of horror or disgrace they bore ; 
But thy foul crime, like Cain's, stands 
darkly out. 

Vile hand, that brandest murder on a 
strife, 
Whate'er its grounds, stoutly and nobly 
striven ; 



And with the martyr's crown crownest a 
life 
With much to praise, little to be for- 
given. 



MRS. MILES. 

HYMN TO CHRIST. 

Thoit, who didst stoop below 

To drain the cup of woe, 
Wealing the form of frail mortality, 

Thy blessed labors done. 

Thy crown of victory won. 
Hast passed from earth, — passed to 
thy throne on high. 

Our eyes behold thee not, 
Yet hast thou not forgot 
Those who have placed their hope, their 
trust, in thee: 
Before thy Father's face 
Thou hast prepared a place. 
That where thou art, there may they also 
be. 

It was no path of flowers. 
Through this dark world of ours, 

Beloved of the Father, thou didst tread ; 
And shall we in dismay 
Shrink from tlie narrow way. 

When clouds and darkness are around it 
spread ? 

Thou who art our life. 
Be with us through the strife ; 
Was not thy head by earth's fierce tem- 
pests bowed? 
Eaise thou our eyes above 
To see a Father's love 
Beam, like a bow of promise, through the 
cloud. 



E'en tlirough tlie awful gloom, 
Which hovers o'er the tomb. 
That light of love our guiding star shall 
be; 
Our spirits shall not dread 
The shadowy way to tread. 
Friend ! Guardian ! Saviour ! which doth 
lead to thee ! 



326 



SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 



F. M. FINCH. 

[u. s. A.] 
THE BLUE AND THE GRAY. 

By the flow of the inland river, 
Whence the fleets of iron have fled, 
W liere the blades of the grave-grass quiver, 
Asleep are the ranks of the dead; — 
Under the sod and the dew, 
Waiting the judgment day ;^ 
Under the one, the Blue ; 
Under the other, the Gray. 

From the silence of sorrowful hours 
The desolate mom'uers go, 
Lovingly laden with flowers 
Alike for the friend and the foe; — • 
Under the sod and the dew, 
Waiting the judgment day; — 
Under the roses, the Blue ; 
Under the lilies, the Gray. 

So with an equal splendor 
The morning sun-rays fall. 
With a touch, impartially tender, 
On the blossoms blooming for all; — 
Under the sod and the dew. 
Waiting the judgment day ; — 
'Broidered with gold, the Blue ; 
Mellowed with gold, the Gray. 

So, when the summer ealleth, 
On forest and field of grain 
With an equal murmur falleth 
The cooling drip of the rain ; — 
Under the sod and the dew, 
Waiting the judgment day ; — 
Wet with the rain, the Blue ; 
Wet with the rain, the Gray. 

Sadly, but not with upbraiding. 

The generous deed was done ; 

In the storm of the years that are fading, 

No braver battle was won ; — 

Under the sod and the dew. 

Waiting the judgment day ; — 

Under the blossoms, the Blue; 

Under the garlands, the Gray. 

No more shall the war-cry sever, 

Or the winding rivers be red ; 

They banish our anger forever 

Wlien they laurel the graves of our dead ! 



Under the sod and the dew, 
Waiting the judgment day; — 
Love and tears for the Blue, 
Tears and love for the Gray. 



HENRY ABBEY. 



THE STATUE. 

In Athens, when all learning centred 

there, 
Men reared a column of surpassing 

height 
In honor of Minerva, wise and fair. 
And on the top, that dwindled to the 

sight, 
A statue of the goddess was to stand. 
That wisdom might obtain in all the 

land. 



And he who, with the beauty in his heart. 
Seeking in faultless work immortal 

youth. 
Would mould this statue with the finest 

art. 
Making the wintry marble glow with 

truth. 
Should gain the prize. Two sculptors 

sought the fame ; 
The prize they craved was an enduring 



Alcamenes soon carved his little best ; 
But Phidias, beneath a dazzling 
thought 
That like a bright sun in a cloudless west 
Lit up his wide, great soul, with pure 
love wrought 
A statue, and its face of changeless stone 
With calm, far-sighted wisdom towered 
and shone. 

Then to be judged the labors were un- 
veiled ; 
But at the marble thought, that by 
degrees 

Of hardship Phidias cut, the people railed. 
"The lines are coarse; the form too 
large," said these; 

"And he who sends this rough result of 
haste 

Sends scorn, and offers insult to our taste. " 



JOHN BURROUGHS. — SAEAH "VVOOLSEY. 



327 



Alcamenes' praised work was lifted high 
Upon the capital where it might stand ; 
But there it seemed too small, and 'gainst 
the sky 
Had no proportion from the uplooking 
land ; 
So it was lowered, and quickly put aside. 
And the scorned thought was mounted 
to be tried. 



Surprise swept o'er the faces of the crowd. 
And changed them as a sudden breeze 
may change 
A field of fickle grass, and long and loud 
Their mingled shouts to see a sight so 
strange. 
The statue stood completed in its place, 
Each coarse line melted to a line of 
grace. 

So bold, great actions, that are seen too 
near. 
Look rash and foolish to unthinking 
eyes; 

They need the past for distance to ap- 
pear 
In their true grandeur. Let us yet be 
wise 

And not too soon our neighbor's deed 
malign. 

For what seems coarse is often good and 
fine. 



JOHN BURROUGHS. 

[U. S. A.] 

WAITING. 

Serexe, I fold my hands and wait. 
Nor care for wind, or tide, or sea ; 

I rave no more 'gainst time or fate, 
For lo ! my own shall come to me. 

I stay my haste, T make delays. 
For what avails this eager pace ? 

I stand amid the eternal ways. 

And what is mine shall know my face. 

Asleep, awake, by night or day, 
The friends I seek are seeking me ; 

No wind can drive my bark astray, 
Nor change the tide of destiny. 



What matter if I stand alone ? 

I wait with joy the coming years ; 
My heart shall reap where it has sown, 

And garner up its fruit of tears. 

The waters know their own and draw 
Thebrookthatspringsinyonderheight; 

So flows the good with equal law 
Unto the soul of pure delight. 

The stars come nightly to the sky ; 

The tidal wave unto the sea ; 
Nor time, nor space, nor deep, nor high, 

Can keep my own away from me. 



SARAH AYOOLSEY. 

[U. S. A] 

IN THE MIST. 

Sitting all day in a silver mist, 
In silver silence all the day. 
Save for the low, soft hiss of spray 

And the lisp of sands by waters kissed, 
As the tide draws u]> the bay. 

Little I hear and notliing I see, 

Wrajiped in that veil by fairies spun ; 
The solid earth is vanished for me 
And the shuiing hours speed noiselessly, 
A woof of shadow and sun. 

Suddenly out of the shifting veil 
A magical bark, by the sunbeams lit. 
Flits like a dream — or seems to flit — 

With a golden prow and a gossamer sail, 
And the waves make room for it. 

A fair, swift bark from some radiant realm. 
Its diamond cordage cuts the sky 
In glittering lines, all silently 

A seeming spirit holds the helm 
And steers. Will he pass me by ? 

Ah ! not for me is the vessel here. 

Noiseless and swift as a sea-bird's flight 
She swerves and vanishes from the 
sight ; 

No flap of sail, no parting cheer, — 
She has passed into the light. 

Sitting some day in a deeper mist. 
Silent, alone, some other day. 



328 



SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 



An unknown bark, from an unknown 
bay, 
By unknown waters lapped and kissed, 
Shall near me through the spray. 

No flap of sail, no scraping of keel. 

Shadowy, dim, with a banner dark, 
It will hover, will pause, and I shall feel 
A hand which grasps me, and shivering 
steal 
To the cold strand, and embark. 

Embark for that far, mysterious realm 
Where the fathomless, trackless waters 

flow. 
Shall I feel a Presence dim, and know 
Tliy dear hand, Lord, upon the helm. 

Nor be afraid to go ? 
And through black waves and stormy 
blast 
And out of the fog-wreaths, dense and 

dun. 
Guided by thee, shall the vessel run. 
Gain the fair haven, night being jiast, 
And anchor in the sun ? 



JOHN JAMES PIATT. 

[U. S. A.] 

THE MORNING STREET. 

Alone I walk the morning street. 
Filled with the silence vague and sweet : 
All seems as strange, as still, as dead, 
As if unnumbered years had fled, 
Letting the noisy Babel lie 
Breathless and dumb against the sky ; 
The light wind walks with me alone 
Where the hot day flame-like was blown. 
Where the wheels roared, the dust was 

beat ; 
The dew is in the morning street. 

Where are the restless throngs that pour 

Along this mighty corridor 

While the noon shines? — the hurrying 

crowd 
Whose footsteps make the city loud, — 
The myriad faces, — hearts that beat 
No more in the deserted street? 
Those footsteps in their dreaming maze 
Cross thresholds of forgotten days ; 



Those faces brighten from the years 
In rising suns long set in tears; 
Those hearts, — far in the Past they beat, 
Unheard within the morning street. 

A city of the world's gray pnme. 
Lost in some desert far from Time, 
Where noiseless ages, gliding through. 
Have only sifted sand and dew, — 
Yet a mysterious hand of man 
Lying on all the haunted plan, 
The passions of the human heart 
Quickening the marble breast of Art, — 
Were not more strange to one who first 
Upon its ghostly silence burst 
Than this vast quiet where the tide 
Of life, upheaved on either side, 
Hangs trembling, ready soon to beat 
With human waves the morning street. 
Ay, soon the glowing morning flood 
Breaks through the charmed solitude : 
This silent stone, to music won. 
Shall murmur to the rising sun ; 
The busy place, in dust and heat. 
Shall rush with wheels and swarm with 

feet; 
The Arachne-threads of Purpose stream 
Unseen within the morning gleam ; 
The life shall move, the death be plain ; 
The bridal throng, the funeral train, 
Together, face to f ce, shall meet 
And pass within the morning street. 



RICHAED W. GILDER. 

[U. S. A.] 

DAWN. 

The night was dark, though sometimes 

a faint star 
A little while a little space made bright. 
The night was long and like an iron 

bar 
Lay heavy on the land : till o'er the sea 
Slowly, within the East, there grew a 

light 
Which half wasstarlight, and half seemed 

to be 
The herald of a greater. The pale 

white 
Turned slowly to pale rose, and up the 

height 
Of heaven slowly climbed. The gray 

sea grew 



WILLIAM BELL SCOTT. 



329 



Kose-colored like the sky. A white gull 
flew 

Straight toward the utmost boundary of 
the East, 

"Where slowly the rose gathered and in- 
creased. 

It was as on the opening of a door 

By one that in his hand a lamp doth 
hold, 

Whose flame is hidden by the garment's 
fold,— 

The still air moves, the wide room is less 
dim. 

More bright the East became, the ocean 
turned 

Dark and more dark against the bright- 
ening sky, — 

Sharper against the sky the long sea line. 

The hollows of the breakers on the shore 

Were green like leaves whereon no sun 
doth shine, 

Though white the outer branches of the 
tree. 

From rose to red the level heaven burned ; 

Then sudden, as if a sword fell from on 
high, 

A blade of gold flashed on the horizon's 
rim. 



THE SOWER. 



A Sower went forth to sow, 

His eyes were wild with woe ; 

He crushed the flowers beneath his feet, 

Nor smelt the perfume, warm and sweet. 

That prayed for pity everywhere. 

He came to a field that was harried 

By iron, and to heaven laid bare : 

He shook the seed that he carried 

O'er that brown and bladeless place. 

He shook it, as God shakes hail 

Over a doomed land. 

When lightnings interlace 

The sky and the earth, and his wand 

Of love is a thunder-flail. 

Thus did that Sower sow ; 
His seed was human blood, 
And tears of women and men. 
And I, who near him stood. 
Said : When the crop comes, then 
There will be sobbing and sighing. 
Weeping and wailing and crying. 
And a woe that is worse than woe. 



It was an autumn day 

When next I went that way. 

And what, think you, did 1 see ? 

What was it that I heard ? 

The song of a sweet-voiced bird ? 

Nay, — but the songs of many. 

Thrilled through with i)raising prayer. 

Of all those voices not any 

Were sad of memory : 

And a sea of sunlight flowed. 

And a golden harvest glowed ! 

On my face I fell down there ; 
1 hid my weeping eyes, 
I said : God, thou art wise ! 
And I thank thee, again and again, 
For the Sower whose name is Pain. 



WILLIAM BELL SCOTT. 



THE DANCE. 

(From "The Witch's Ballad.") 

0, I HAE come from far away. 
From a warm land far away, 
A southern land ayont the sea, 
With sailor lads about the mast 
Merry and canny and kind to me. 

And I hae been to yon town. 

To try my luck in yon town : 
Nort, and Mysie, Elspie too. 
Right braw we were to pass the gate 
Wi' gowden clasps on girdles blue. 

Mysie smiled wi' miming mouth. 

Innocent mouth, miming mouth ; 
Elspie wore her scarlet gown, 
Nort's gray eyes were tinco' gleg. 
My Castile comb was like a crown. 

We walked abreast all up the street, 

Into the market up the street : 
Our hair wi' marygolds was wound. 
Our bodices wi' love-knots laced, 
Our merchandise wi' tansy bound. 

Nort had chickens, I had cocks. 

Gamesome cocks, loud-crowing cocks; 
Mysie ducks, and Elspie drakes. 
For a wee gi'oat or a pound. 
We lost nae time wi' gives and takes. 



330 



SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 



Lost nae time, for weel we knew, 

In our sleeves fu' weel we knew, 
When the gloaming came that night, 
Duck nor drake, nor hen nor cock, 
Would be found by candlelight. 

When our chaffering a' was done. 
All was paid for, sold and done, 
W^e drew a glove on ilka hand, 
We sweetly curtsied each to each, 
And deftly danced a saraband. 



The market lasses looked and laughed, 

Left their gear and looked and laughed ; 
They made as they would join the game. 
But soon their mithers, wild and wud, 
Wi' whack and screech they stopped the 



Sae loud the tongues o' raudies grew. 

The flitin' and the skirliu' grew, 
At a' the windows i' the place, 
Wi' spoons and knives, wi' needle or awl, 
Was thrust out ilka hand and face. 

And down each stair they thronged anon ; 

Gentle, simple, thronged anon ; 
Souter and tailor, frowzy Nan, 
Tiie ancient widow young again 
Simpering behind her fan. 

Without choice, against their will. 
Doited, dazed against their will, 
The market lassie and her mither. 
The farmer and his husbandman. 
Hand in hand danced a' thegether. 

Slow at first, but faster soon. 

Still increasin' wild and fast. 
Hoods and mantles, hats and hose. 
Blindly doffed, ami frae them cast, 
Left them naked, heads and toes. 

They would hae torn us limb frae limb, 

Dainty limb frae dainty limb ; 
But never ane o' them could win 
Across the line that I had drawn 
Wi' bleeding thumb a-witherskin. 

There was Jeff the provost's son, 

Jeff the provost's only son ; 
There was Father Auld himsel', 
The Lombard frae the hostelrie, 
And the lawyer Peter Fell. 

All goodly men we singled out. 
Waled them well and singled out, 



And drew them b}' the left hand in, — 
Mysie the priest, and Elspie won 
The Lombard, Nort the lawyer curie. 
And I my mysel' the provost's son. 

Then wi' cantrip kisses seven, 

Three times round wi' kisses seven, 
Warped and woven there spun we, 
Arms and legs and flaming hair, 
Like a whirlwind on the sea. 

Like the wind that sucks the sea, 

Over and in and on the sea, 
Good sooth, it was a mad delight : 
And ilka man o' all the four 
Shut his eyes and laughed outright, — 

Laughed as long as they had bi-eath , 

Laughed while they had sense or breath ; 
And close about us coiled a mist 
Of gnats and midges, wasps and Hies ; 
Like the whirlwind shaft it rist. 

Drawn up was I right off my feet, 

Into the mist and oft' my feet; 
And, dancing on each chimney-top, 
1 saw a thousand darling imps 
Keeping time wi' skip and hop. 

We '11 gang ance mair to yon town, 

Wi' better luck to yon town : 
We'll walk in silk and cramoisie. 
And 1 shall wed the prevost's son ; 
My lady o' the town I '11 be ! 

For I was born a crowned king's child. 

Born and nursed a king's child, 
King o' a land ayont the sea, 
Where the Blackamoor kissed me first 
And taught me art and glamourie. 

The Lombard shall be Elsi)ie's man, 

Elspie's gowden husbandman ; 
Nort shall take the lawyer's hand ; 
The priest shall swear another vow. 
We '11 dance again the saraband ! 



JOSEPH BRENNAN. 



COME TO ME, DEAREST. 

Come to me, dearest, I 'm lonely with- 
out thee. 

Day-time and night-time, I 'm thinking 
about thee ; 



CHAELES G. LELAND. 



331 



Niglit-time and day-time, in dreams I 

behold thee ; 
Unwelcome the waking which ceases to 

fold thee. 
Come to me, darling, my sorrows to 

lighten. 
Come in thy beauty to bless and to 

brighten ; 
Come in thy womanhood, meekly and 

lowly, 
Come inthy lovingness, queenly and holy. 

Swallows will flit round the desolate 
ruin, 

Telling of spring and its joyous renew- 
ing 

And thoughts of thy love, and its mani- 
fohl treasure, 

Are circling my heart with a promise of 
pleasure. 

Springof my spirit, May of my bosom, 
Shine out on my soul, till it bourgeon 

and blossom ; 
The waste of my life has a rose-root 

within it. 
And thy fondness alone to the sunshine 

can win it. 

Figure that moves like a song through 

the even, 
Features lit up by a reflex of heaven ; 
Eyes like the skies of poor Erin, our 

mother, 
"Where shadow and sunshine are chas- 
ing each other ; 
Smiles coming seldom, but childlike and 

simple. 
Planting in each rosy cheek a sweet 

dimple ; — 
0, thanks to the Saviour, that even thy 

seeming 
Is left to the exile to brighten his 

dreaming. 

You have been glad when you knew I 

was gladdened ; 
Dear, are you sad now to hear I am 

saddened ? 
Our hearts ever answer in tune and in 

time, love. 
As octave to octave, and rhyme unto 

rliynie, love ; 

1 cannot weep but your tears will be 

flowing. 
You cannot smile but my cheek will be 
glowing ; 



I would not die without you at my side, 

love. 
You will not linger when I shall have 
died, love. 

Come to me, dear, ere I die of my sorrow. 
Rise on my gloom like the sun of to- 
morrow ; 
Strong, swift, and fond as the words 

which I speak, love. 
With a song on your lip and a smile on 

your cheek, love. 
Come, for my heart in your absence is 

weary, — 
Haste, for my spirit is sickened and 

dreary, — 
Come to the arms which alone should 

caress thee. 
Come to tlie heart that is throbbing to 

press thee ! 



CHARLES G. LELAND. 

[U. S. A.] 

THE MUSIC-LESSON OF CONFUCIUS. 

The music-lesson of Konng-tseu the wise, 
Known as Confucius in the western 
world. 

Of all the sages of the Flowery Land 
None knew so well as great Confucius 
The ancient rites; and when-his mother 

died. 
Three years he mourned alone beside 

her tomb 
As the Old Custom bade, nor did he miss 
A single detail of the dark old forms 
Required of the bereaved, for he had 

made 
Himself a model for all living men : 
A mirror and a pattern of the Past. 

Now when the years of mourning with 

their rites 
Were at an end, Confucius came forth 
And wandered as of old with other men, 
Giving his counsel unto many kings; 
But still the hand of grief was on his 

heart, 
And his dark hue set forth his darkened 

hours. 
To drive away these sorrows from his 

soul, 



332 



SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 



Eemembering that music had been made 
A moral motive in the golden books 
Of wisdom by the sacred ancestors, 
He played upon the Kin — the curious 

lute 
Invented by Fou-Hi in days of old ; 
Fou-Hi of the bull's head and dragon's 

form, 
The Lord of Learning who upraised 

mankind 
From being silent brutes to singing men. 

In vain Confucius played upon the lute ; 
He found that music would not be to 

him 
What it had been of old, — a pastime 

gay: 
For he had borne through three long 

years of grief 
Stupendous knowledge, and his mighty 

soul, 
Grasping the lines which link all earthly 

lore, 
Had been by suffering raised to greater 

power : 
For he who knoivs and suffers, if he will 
May raise himself unnumbered scales 

o'er man. 

The music spoke no more its wonted 

sounds. 
But whispered mysteries in a broken 

tongue 
"Which urged him sorely. Then Con- 
fucius said : 
" secret Music ! sacred tongue of God ! 
I hear thee calling to me, and I come ! 
Of old I did but know thy outer form. 
And dreamed not of the spirit hid 

within ; 
The Goddess in the Lotus. Yes, I come, 
And will not rest, — nor will I calm my 

doubt 
Till I have seen thee plainly with mine 

eyes. 
And palpably have touched thee with 

my hand, 
TJieii shall I know thee, — raised to life 

for me 
For what thou truly art. 

Lo ! I have heard 
That in the land of Kin a master lives. 
So deeply skilled in music, that mankind 
Begin again to give a glowing faith 
Unto the golden stories which are told 
Of the strange harmonies which built 

the world, 



And of the melody whose key is God. 
Now I will travel to the land of Kin, 
And know this sage of nmsic, great 

Siang, 
And learn the secret lore which hides 

within 
All sweet well-ordered sounds." He 

went his w'ay, 
Nor rested till he stood before the man. 

Thus spoke Siang unto Confucius : 
"Of all the arts, great Music is the art 
To I'aise the soul above all earthly storms ; 
For in it lies that purest harmony 
Which lifts us over self and up to 

God. 
Thou who hast studied deeply the ^oi<a — 
The eight great symbols of created 

things — 
Knowest the sacred power of the line 
Which when unbroken flies to all the 

worlds 
As light unending, — but in broken forms 
Falls short as sky and earth, clouds, 

winds, and fire. 
The deep blue ocean and the mountain 

And the red lightning hissing in the wa ve. 
The mighty law which formed what thoii 

canst see, 
As clearly lives in all that thou canst 

hear. 
And more than this, in all that thou 

canst feel. 
Here, take thy lute in hand. I teach 

the air 
Made by the sage Wen Wang of ancient 

days." 

Confucius took the lute and played the 

air 
Till all his soul seemed passing into 
I song ; 

Then he fell deep into the solemn chords 
I As though his body and the lute were 
I one, 

And every chord a wave which bore him 

on 
Through the great sea of ecstasy. His 
I hands 

, Then ceased to play, — but in his raptured 

look 
They saw him following out the harmony. 

I Five days went b}', and still Confucius 
Played all day long the ancient simple 
I air; 



CHARLES G. LELAND. 



333 



And when Siang would teach him more, 

he said: 
"Not yet, my master, I would seize the 

thought. 
The subtle thought which hides within 

the tune." 
To which the master answered: "It is 

well. 
Take five days more!" And when the 

time was passed 
Unto Siang thus spoke Confucius : 
"1 do begin to see, — yet wliat I see 
Is very dim. I am as one who looks 
And nothing sees except a luminous 

cloud : 
Give me but five more days, and at the 

end 
If I have not attained the great idea 
Hidden of old within the melody, 
I will leave music as beyond my power." 
"Do as thou wilt, pupil !" cried Siang 
In deepest adnuration ; "never yet 
Had I a scholar who was like to* thee." 

And on the fifteenth day Confucius rose 
And stood before Siang, and cried aloud : 
"The mist which shadowed me is blown 

away, 
I am as one who stands upon a cliff 
And gazes far and wide upon the world, 
For I have mastered every secret thought. 
Yea, every shadow of a feeling dim 
Which flitted through the spirit of Wen 

Wang 
When he composed that air. I speak to 

him, 
I hear him clearly answer me again ; 
And more than that, I see his very form : 
A man of middle stature, with a hue 
Half blended with the dark and with the 

. fair ; 
His features long, and large sweet eyes 

which beam 
With great benevolence, — a noble face ! 
His voice is deep and full, and all his air 
Inspires a sense of virtue and of love. 
I know that I behold the very man. 
The sage of ancient days. Wen Wang the 

just." 

Then good Siang lay down upon the dust, 
And said : " Thou art my master. Even 

thus 
The ancient legend, known to none but 

me, 
Describes our first great sire. And thou 

hast seen I 



That which I never yet m5\self beheld. 
Though I have played the sacred song 

for years. 
Striving with all my soul to penetrate 
Its mystery unto the master's form, 
Whilst thou hast reached it at a single 

bound : — 
Henceforth the gods alone can teach thee 

tune." 



MINE OWN. 

And 0, the longing, burning eyes ! 

And 0, the gleaming hair 
Which waves around me, night and day, 

O'er chamber, hall, and stair ! 

And 0, the step, half dreamt, half heard ! 

And 0, the laughter low ! 
And memories of merriment 

Which faded long ago ! 

0, art thou Sylph,— or truly Self,— 

Or either at thy choice ? 
0, speak in breeze or beating heart, 

But let me hear thy voice ! 

"0, some do call me Laughter, love; 

And some do call me Sin" : — 
"And they may call thee wliiit they will, 

So I thy love may win. 

"And some do call me AVantonness, 
And some do call me Play" : — 

"O, they might call thee wliat they would 
If thou wert mine alway ! " 

"And some do call me Sorrow, love, 

And some do call me Tears, 
And some there be who name me Hope, 

And some that name me Fears. 

"And some do call me Gentle Heart, 
And some Forgetfulness" : — 

"And if thou com'st as one or all, 
Thou comest but to bless !" 

"And some do call me Life, sweetheart, 
And some do call me Death ; 

And he to whom the two are one 
Has won my heart and faith." 

She twined her white arms round his 
neck : — 

The tears fell down like rain. 
"And if I live or if I die, 

We'll never part again." 



334 



SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 



HELEN BARRON BOSTWICK. 

[U. S. A.] 

URVASI. 

'T IS a story told by Kalidasa, — 
Hindoo poet, ^ — in melodious rhyme, 

How with train of maidens, young Urvasi 
Came to keep great Indra's festal time. 

'T was her part in worshipful confession 
Of the god-name on that sacred day, 

Walking Bower-crowned in the long pro- 
cession, 
"I love Puru-sliotta-ma" to say. 

Pure as snow on Himalayan ranges. 
Heaven -descended, soon to heaven 
withdrawn, 
Fairer than the moon-flower of the 
Ganges, 
Was Ui-vasi, Daughter of the Dawn. 

But it happened that the gentle maiden 
Loved one Puru-avas, — fateful name ! — 

And her heart, with its sweet secret laden. 
Faltered when her time of utterance 
came. 

"I love" — then she stopped, and people 
wondered ; 
"I love" — she must guard her secret 
well; 
Then from sweetest lips that ever blun- 
dered, 
"I love Puru-avas, "trembling fell. 

Ah, what terror seized on poor Urvasi ! 

Misty grew the violets of her eyes, 
And her form bent like a broken daisy. 

While around her rose the mocking 
cries. 

But great Indra said, "The maid shall 
marry 
Him whose image in her faithful heart 
She so near to that of God doth carry. 
Scarce her lips can keep their names 
apart." 

Call it then not weakness or dissem- 
bling, 
If, in striving the high name to reach, 
Through our voices runs the tender 
trembling 
Of an earthly name too dear for 
speech ! 



Ever dwells the lesser in the greater; 

In God's love the human : we by these 
Know he holds Love's simplest stam- 
mering sweeter 

Than cold praise of wordy Pharisees. 



UNKNOWN. 

THE FISHERMAN'S FUNERAL. 

Up on the breezy headland the fisher- 
man's grave they made, 

Where, over the daisies and clover bells, 
the birchen branches swayed ; 

Above us the lark was singing in the 
cloudless skies of June, 

And under the cliffs the billows were 
chanting their ceaseless tune : 

For the creamy line was curving along 
the hollow shore, 

Where the dear old tides were flowing 
that he would ride no more. 

The dirge of the wave, the note of the bird, 
and the priest's low tone were blent 

In the breeze that blew from the moor- 
land, all laden with country scent ; 

But never a thought of the new-mown 
hay tossing on sunny plains. 

Or of lilies deep in the wild- wood, or 
roses gemming the lanes. 

Woke in the hearts of the stern bronzed 
men who gathered around the 
grave. 

Where lay the mate who had fought with 
them the battle of wind and wave. 



How boldly he steered the coble 

the foaming bar. 
When the sky was bla(;k to the eastward 

and the breakers whiteon the Scar ! 
How his keen eye caught the squall aliead, 

how his strong hand furled the sail, 
As we drove o'er the angry waters before 

the raging gale ! 
How cheery he kept all the long dark 

night ; and never a parson spoke 
Good words, like those he said to us, 

when at last the morning broke ! 

So thought the dead man's comrades, as 
silent and sad they stood. 

While the prayer was prayed, the blessing 
said, and the dull earth struck the 
wood ; 



UNKNOWN. 



335 



And the widow's soh and tlie or]ilian's 

wail janed through the joyous air ; 
How could the light wind o'er the sea, 

blow on so fresh and fair? 
How could the gay waves laugh and leap, 

landward o'er sand and stone, 
While he, who knew and loved them 

all lay lapped in clay alone ? 

But for long, when to the beetling heights 

the SHOW-tipped billows roll, 
"When the cod, and skate, and dogfish dart 

around the herring shoal ; 
When gear is sorted, and sails are set, 

and the merry breezes blow. 
And away to the deep sea-harvest the 

stalwart reapers go, 
A kindly sigh, and a hearty word, they 

will give to him who lies 
Where the clover springs, and the heather 

blooms, beneath the northern skies. 



UNKNOWN. 

ON RECROSSING THE ROCKY MOUN- 
TAINS IN WINTER, AFTER MANY 
YEARS. 

Long years ago I wandered here, 
In the midsummer of the year, — 

Life's summer too ; 
A score of horsemen here we rode, 
The mountain world its glories showed, 

All fair to view. 

These scenes in glowing colors drest. 
Mirrored the life within my breast. 

Its world of hopes ; 
The whispering woods and fragrant breeze 
That stirred the grass in verdant seas 

On billowy slopes, 

And glistening crag in sunlit sky, 

Mid snowy clouds piled mountains high, 

Were joys to me ; 
My path was o'er the prairie wide. 
Or here on grander mountain-side, 

To choose, all free. 

The rose that waved in morning air. 
And spread its dewy fragrance there 

In careless bloom, 
Gave to my heart its ruddiest hue, 
O'er my glad life its color threw 

And sweet perfume. 



Now changed the scene and changed the 

eyes. 
That here once looked on glowing skies, 

Where summer smiled ; 
These riven trees, this wind-swept plain 
Now show the winter's dread domain, 

Its fury wild. 

The rocks rise black from storm-packed 

snow. 
All checked the river's pleasant flow, 

Vanished the bloom ; 
These dreary wastes of frozen plain 
Reflect my bosom's life again. 

Now lonesome gloom. 

The buoyant hopes and busy life 
Have ended all in hateful strife, 

And thwarted aim. 
The world's rude contact killed the rose. 
No more its radiant color shows 

False roads to fame. 

Backward, amidst the twilight glow 
Some lingering spots yet brightly show 

On hard roads won. 
Where still some grand peak s m ark the way 
Touched by the light of parting day 

And memory's sun. 

But here thick clouds the mountainshide, 
The dim horizon- bleak and wide 

No pathway shows. 
And rising gusts, and darkening sky. 
Tell of "the night that cometh," nigh, 

The brief day's close. 



UNKNOWN. 



JULY DAWNING. 

We left the city, street and square. 
With lamplights glimmering through 
and through. 
And turned us toward the suburb, 
where — 
Full from the east— the fresh wnid 
blew. 

One cloud stood overhead the sun, — 
A glorious trail of dome and spire, — 

The last star flickered, and was gone ; 
The first lark led the matin choir. 



336 



SOXGS OF THEEE CENTURIES. 



Wet was tlie grass beneath our tread, 
Thick -dewed the bramble by the way; 

The lichen had a lovelier red, 
The elder-flower a fairer gray. 

And there was silence on the land, 
Save when, from out the city's fold, 

Stricken by Time's remorseless wand, 
A bell across the morning tolled. 

The beeches sighed through all their 
boughs ; 

The gusty pennons of the jjine 
Swayed in a melancholy drowse. 

But with a motion sternly fine. 

One gable, full against the sun, 
Flooded the garden-space beneath 

With spices, sweet as cinnamon, 
From all its honeysuckled breath. 

Then crew the cocks from echoing farms. 
The chimney-tops were plumed with 
smoke, 

The windmill shook its slanted arms. 
The sun was up, the country woke ! 

And voices sounded mid the trees 
Of orchards red with burning leaves. 

By thick hives, sentinelled by bees, — 
From fields which promised tented 
sheaves ; 

Till the day waxed into excess, 

And on the misty, rounding gray, — 

One vast, fantastic wilderness. 
The glowing roofs of London lay. 



UNKNOWN. 

THE FISHERMAN'S SUMMONS. 

The sea is calling, calling. 

Wife, is there a log to spare ? 

Fling it down on the hearth and call 

them in. 
The boys and girls with their merry din, 
I am loth to leave you all just yet. 
In the light and the noise I might forget, 
The voice in the evening air. 

The sea is calling, calling. 

Along the hollow shore. 

I know each nook in the rocky strand. 

And the crimson weeds on the golden sand. 



And the worn old cliff where the sea- 
pinks cling. 

And the winding caves where the echoes 
ring. 

I shall wake them nevermore. 

How it keeps calling, calling, 

It is never a night to sail. 

I saw the "sea-dog" over the height, 

As I strained through the haze my fail- 
ing sight. 

And the cottage creaks and rocks, well- 
nigh. 

As the old "Fox" did in the days gone by. 

In the moan of the rising gale. 

Yet it is calling, calling. 

It is hard on a soul, I say. 

To go fluttering out in the cold and the 

dark, 
Like the bird they tell us of, from the 

ark; 
While the foam flies thick on the bitter 

blast, 
And the angry waves roll fierce and fast, 
Where the black buoy marks the bay. 

Do you hear it .calling, calling ? 
And yet, I am none so old. 
At the herring fishery, but last year. 
No boat beat mine for tackle and gear. 
And I steered the coble past the reef, 
When the broad sail shook like a with- 
ered leaf. 
And the rudder chafed my hold. 

Will it never stop calling, calling ? 
Can't you sing a song by the hearth ? 
A heartsome stave of a merry glass. 
Or a gallant fight, or a bonnie lass? 
Don't you care for your grand-dad just 

so much? 
Come near then, give me a hand to touch. 
Still warm with the warmth of earth. 

You hear it calling, calling? 

Ask her why she sits and cries. 

She always did when the sea was up. 

She would fret, and never take bit or sup 

When I and the lads were out at night, 

And she saw the breakers cresting white 

Beneath the low black skies. 

But, then, it is calling, calling, 
No summons to soul was sent. 
Now — Well, fetch the parson, find the 

book, 
It is up on the shelf there if you look ; 



MARY N. PRESCOTT. — ARTHUR O'SHAUGHNESSY. 



337 



The sea has been friend, and fire, and 

bread ; 
Put me, where it will tell of me, lying 

dead, 
How It called, and I rose and went. 



MARY N. PRESCOTT. 



Sweet wind, fair wind, where have you 

been ? 
"I 've been sweeping the cobwebs out of 

the sky ; 
I've been grinding a grist in the mill 

hard by; 
I 've been laughing at work while others 

sigh ; 
Let those laugh who win !" 

Sweet rain, soft rain, what are you doing? 
"I 'm urging the corn to fill out its cells ; 
I 'm helping the lily to fashion its bells ; 
I 'm swelling the torrent and brimming 
the wells ; 
Is that worth pursuing?" 

Eedbreast, redbreast, what have you done? 
"I 've been watching the nest where my 

fledgelings lie ; 
I 've sung them to sleep with a lullaby ; 
By and by I shall teach them to fly. 
Up and aw'ay, every one !" 

Honey-bee, honey-bee, where are you go- 
ing? 
"To fill my basket with precious pelf; 
To toil for my neighbor as well as myself; 
To find out thesweetest flower that grows. 
Be it a thistle or be it a rose, — 

A secret worth the knowing!" 

Each content with the woi-k to be done. 
Ever the same from sun to sun : 
kShall you and I be taught to work 
By the bee and the bird, that scorn to 
shirk ? 

Wind and rain fulfilling His word ! 

Tell me, was ever a legend heard 

Where the wind, commanded to blow, 
deferred ; 

Or the rain, that was bidden to fall, de- 
murred ? 

22 



TWO MOODS. 

I PLUCKED the harebells as I went 

Singing along the river-side ; 

The skies above were opulent 

Of sunshine. " Ah ! whate'er betide, 

The world is sweet, is sweet," I cried. 

That morning by the river-side. 

The curlews called along the shore ; 
The boats put out from sandy beach ; 
Afar I heard the breakers' roar. 
Mellowed to silver-sounding speech ; 
And still I sang it o'er and o'er, 
"The world is sweet foreverniore !" 

Perhaps, to-day, some other one, 
Loitering along the river-side. 
Content beneath the gracious sun, 
May sing, again, "Whate'er betide, 
The world is sweet." 1 shall not chide. 
Although my song is done. 



ARTHUR O'SHAUGHNESSY. 



SONG OF A FELLOW-WORKER. 

I FOUND a fellow-worker when I deemed 

I toiled alone : 
My toil was fashioning thought and 

sound, and his was hewing stone ; 
I worked in the palace of my brain, he 

in the common street. 
And it seemed his toil was great and hard, 

while mine was great and sweet. 

I said,"0 fellow- worker, yea, for I am a 

worker too. 
The heart nigh fails me many a day, but 

how is it with you ? 
For while I toil great tears of joy will 

sometimes fill my eyes, 
And when 1 form my perfect work it lives 

and never dies. 

"I carve the marble of pure thought until 

the thought takes form. 
Until it gleams before my soul and makes 

the world grow warm ; 
Until there conies the glorious voice and 

words that seem divine. 
And the music reaches all men's hearts 

and draws them into mine. 



338 



SONGS OF THEEE CENTUKIES. 



"And yet for (.Ia)'s it seems my heart shall 

blossom never more, 
And the burden of my loneliness lies on 

me very sore : 
Therefore, hewer of the stones that 

pave base human ways, 
How canst thou bear the years till death, 

made of such thankless days?" 

Then he replied : "Ere sunrise, when the 

pale li])s of the day 
Sent forth an earnest thrill of breath at 

warmth of the first ray, 
A great thought rose within me, how, 

while men asleep had lain, 
The thousand labors of the world had 

grown up once again. 

"The sun grow on the world, and on my 

soul the thought grew too, — 
A great appalling sun, to light my soul 

the long day through. 
I felt the world's whole burden for a 

moment, then began 
With man's gigantic strength to do the 

labor of one man. 

"I went forth hastily, and lo ! I met a 

hundred men. 
The worker with the chisel and the 

worker with the pen, — 
The restless toilers after good, who sow 

and never reap. 
And one who maketh music for their 

souls that may not sleep. 

"Each passed me with a dauntless look, 

and my undaunted eyes 
Were almost softened as they 

with tears that strove to rise 
At sight of all those labors, and because 

that every one. 
Ay, the greatest, would be greater if my 

little were undone. 

"They passed me, having faith in me, 
and in our several ways. 

Together we began to-day as on the other 
days : 

I felt their mighty hands at work, and, 
as the day wore through. 

Perhaps they felt that even 1 was help- 
ing somewhat too : 

"Perhaps they felt, as with those hands 

they lifted mightily 
The burden once more laid iipon the 

world so heavily, 



That while they nobly held it as each 

man can do and bear. 
It did not wholly fall my side as though 

no man were there. 

"And so we toil together many a day 

from morn till night, 
I in the lower depths of life, they on the 

lovely height ; 
For though the common stones are mine, 

and they have lofty cares, 
Their work begins where this leaves off, 

and mine is part of theirs. 

"And 't is not wholly mine or theirs I 
thhik of through the day, 

But the great eternal thing we make to- 
gether, I and they ; 

Far in the sunset I behold a city that 
man owns. 

Made fair with all their nobler toil, built 
of my common stones. 

"Then noon ward, as the task grows light 
with all the labor done. 

The single thought of all the day be- 
comes a joyous one : 

For, rising in my heart at last where it 
has lain so long. 

It thrills up seeking for a voice, and 
grows almost a .song. 

"But when the evening comes, indeed, 

the words have taken wing. 
The thought sings in me still, but I am 

all too tired to sing ; 
Therefore, you my friend, who serve 

the world with minstrelsy, 
Among our fellow-workers' songs make 

that one song for me." 



MRS. KNOX. 



A SONG. 

Dost thou think I captive lie 
To a gracious, glancing eye ? 
Dost thou think 1 am not free ? 
Nay, I am ; thou freest me. 

All the world could not undo 

Chains which bound me fast to you ; 
Only at your touch they fly, — 
Freer than before am I. 



C. BROOKE. — AECEDEACON HARE. 



1 care not for ej'es of blue ; 

I loved truth and thought it you ; 
If you charm but to deceive, 
All your charms I well can leave. 

Ah, my once well-loved one ; 
Do no more as thou hast done ; 

IShe that makes true hearts to ache, 
Last of all her own will break. 



C. BEOOKE. 

A CYCLE. 

If he had come in the early dawn. 
When the sunrise flushed the earth, 

1 would have given him all my heart, 
Whatever the heart was worth. 

If he had come at the noontide hour, 
He would not have come too late ; 

I would have given him jiatient faith. 
For then I had learned to wait. 

If he had come in the afterglow. 
In the peace of the eventide, 

I would have given him hands and brain. 
And worked for him till I died. 

If he comes now the sun has set, 
And the light has died away, 

I will not give him a broken life 
But will turn and say him, "Nay." 



ARCHDEACON HAEE. 

ITALY. A PROPHECY. 

ISIS. 

Strike the loved harp ; let the prelude 
be, 
Italy! Italy! 
That chord again, again that note of glee, — 

Italy! Italy! 
Italy ! Italy ! the very sound it charm- 

eth: 
Italy ! Italy ! the name my 
wamieth. 
High thought of self-devotions. 
Compassionate emotions, 



Soul-stirring recollections. 

With hopes, their bright reflections. 

Rush to my troubled heart at thought of 
thee, 

My own illustrious, injured Italy. 

Dear queen of snowy mountains. 
And consecrated fountains. 
Within whose rocky, heaven-aspiringpale 
Beauty has fixed a dwelling 
All others so excelling 
To praise it right, thine own sweet tones 
would fail ; 
Hail to thee ! hail ! 
How rich art thou in lakes to poet 

dear, 
And those broad pines amid the sunniest 
glade 
So reigning through the year, 
Within the magic circle of their shade 
No sunbeam may appear ! 
How fair thy double sea ! 
In blue celestiall)^ 

Glittering and circling ! but I may not 
dwell 
On gifts, which, decking thee too 
well, 
Allured the spoiler. Let me fix my ken 

Rather upon thy godlike men, 
The good, the wise, the valiant, and the 

free. 
On history's pillars towering gloriously, 
A trophy reared on high upon thy strand, 
That eveiy people, every clime 
May mark and understand. 
What memorable courses may be run. 
What golden never-failing treasures won. 
From time, 
In spite of chance, 
And worser ignorance. 
If men be ruled by Duty's firm decree. 
And wisdom hold her jiaramount mas- 
tery. 

What art thou now ? Alas ! Alas ! 

Woe, woe ! 
That strength and virtue thusshouldpass 

From men below ! 
That so divine, so beautiful a Maid 
Should in the withering dust be laid, 
As one that — ■ Hush! who dares with 
impious breath 
To speak of death ? 
The fool alone and unbeliever weepeth. 
We know she only sleepeth ; 

And from the dust, 
At the end of her correction, 



540 



SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 



Truth liath decreed her joyous resurrec- 
tion : 
She sliall arise, she must. 
For can it be that wickedness hath power 
To undermine or topple down the tower 
Of virtue's edifice ? 
And yet that vice 
Shoukl he allowed on sacred ground to 
plant 
A rock of adamant? 
It is of ice, 
That rock soon destined to dissolve away 
Before the righteous sun's returning ray. 

But who shall bear the dazzling radiancy, 
When first the royal Maid awaking 
Darteth around her wild indignant eye. 
When first her bright spear shaking, 
Fixing her feet on earth, her looks on sky. 
She standeth like the Archangel prompt 

to vanquish. 
Yet still imploring succor from on high ? 

days of weary hope and passionate 

anguish, 
When will ye end ! 
Until that end be come, until I hear 

The Alps their mighty voices blend, 
To swell and echo back the sound most 

dear 
To patriot hearts, the cry of Liberty, 

1 must live on. But when the glorious 

Queen 
As erst is canopied with Freedom's sheen, 
When I have prest, with salutation meet, 
With reverent love to kiss her honored 

feet, 
I thtm may die. 
Die how well satisfied ! 
Conscious that I have watched the second 

birth 
Of her I 've loved the most upon the 

earth. 
Conscious beside 
That no more beauteous sight can here 

be given : 
Sublimer visions are reserved for heaven. 



T. K. HERVEY. 

EPITAPH. 

Farewell ! since never more for thee 
The sun comes up our eastern skies, 

Less bright henceforth shall sunshine be 
To some fond hearts and saddened eyes. 



There are who for thy last, long sleep 
Shall sleep as sweetly nevermore, — 

Shall weep because thou canst not weep, 
And grieve that all thy griefs are o'er. 

Sad thi-ift of love ! the loving breast 
On which the aching head was thrown, 

Gave up the weary head to rest, 
But kept the aching for its own. 



FREDERICK TENNYSON. 



THE BLACKBIRD. 

How sweet the harmonies of afternoon ! 
The Blackbird sings aloiig the sunny 

breeze 
His ancient song of leaves, and summer 

boon ; 
Rich breath of hayfields streams 

through whispering trees ; 
And birds of morning trim their bustling 

wings, ' 
And listen fondly — while the Blackbird 

sings. 

How soft the lovelight of the west re- 
poses 
On this green valley's cheery solitude. 

On the trim cottage with its screen of 
roses. 
On the gray belfry with its ivy hood, 

And murmuring mill-race, and the wheel 
that flings 

Its bubbling freshness — while the Black- 
bird sings. 

The very dial on the village church 
Seems as 't were dreaming in a dozy 
rest ; 

The scribbled benches underneath the 
porch 
Bask in the kindly welcome of the 
west : 

But the broad casements of the old Three 
Kings 

Blaze like a furnace — while the Black- 
bird sings. 

And there beneath the immemorial elm 
Three rosy revellers round a table 
sit, 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 



345 



It lies around us like a cloud 248 

It stands in a sunny meadow 290 

It was a fViar of onlers gray 67 

It was the winter wild 35 

• 1 've heard tlirm liltinu :it our ewe-milking SS 
I 've wandcnd ca.st, I '\ u wandered west . . 159 

I wandeivd hv tlif ludokside 180 

I w-iinl.Tcd I..1I, ly as a cloud 99 

I WHS |]]v iiciuliljdr once, thou rugged i)ile ! 101 

I wiiishi'i. tlir,-, sweet AVm of God! 239 

I would lie reatly, Lord 321 

I would have gone ; God bade me stay 272 

I would not live alway : I ask not to stay . I(j2 

Jesus, lover of my soul 58 

John Davidson and Tib his wife 78 

Judge not ; the workings of his brain 278 

Just f(n- a handful of silver he left us 207 

Just where the Treasury's marble front . .. 2S5 

Laid in my quiet bed 3 

Late to our town there came a maid 269 

Launch thy Ivuk. ninriiM-i : 148 

Lest men siis|»( t \i)ui' talc untrue 50 

Let me not to the mariia-e ul true minds.. IS 
Let Taylor preach, upon a morning breezy 160 

Let us go, lassie, go 88 

Life ! I know not what thou art 75 

Life may be given in many ways 228 

Like some visinn oMeu 253 

Like to the lallin- (if a star 27 

Listen, niv .-hildreii, and you shall hear ... 207 
Little thinks, in the held, yon red-cloaked 

clown 200 

Lo, liere is God, and there is God ! 242 

Long years ago I wandered liere 335 

Lo ! o'er the earth the kindling spirits pour 90 
Looking seaward, o'er the sand-hills stands , 

the fortress, old and quaint 299 

Lord ! call thy pallid angel 143 

Lord, it belongs not to my care 39 

Love divine, all other love excelling 58 

Love, wlien all these years are silent, van- 
ished quite and laid to rest 312 

Maiden ! with the meek, brown eyes 209 

Make me no vows of constanc-y, dear friend 251 

Methiidis it is good to be here 93 

Mid pleasures and palaces though we may 

roam 153 

Midwinter comes to-morrow 320 

Mild oftspring of a dark and sullen sire !. . . 92 

Mine be a cot beside the hill 81 

Mine eyes have seen the glory of the condng 

of the Lord 236 

Mout Blanc is the monarch of mountains . . 126 
More than thfi soul of ancient song is given 263 

My child is lying on my knees 270 

My days among the dead are passed 117 

Mv dear and only love, f prav 28 

My liawk is tiie.l nf perrl, and hood 105 

Mv lite is liki- tlie summer rose 152 

My inind to me a kingdom is 15 

My sins and follies. Lord ! by thee 33 

Mysterious night! when our first parent 

knew 89 

Nearer, my God, to thee 245 

Never, surely, was holier man 226 

Next to the-'e ladies, but in naught allied . 80 
Night seems troubled and scarce asleep ... 314 
No abbey's gloom, nor dark cathedral stoops 235 

Ni> longer sjireail the sail ! 262 

No mistress of the hidden skill 153 



No stir in the air, no stir in the sea 117 

Not a drum was heard, uot a funeral note. 152 
No ! Time, thou shalt not boast tliat I do 

change 18 

Not in the world of light alone 219 

Not often to the parting soul 235 

Not ours the vows of such as plight 144 

Not yet, the flowers are iu my path 254 

O Artist, range not over-wide 266 

O, ask not, hope thou not, too much 154 

O blithe new-comer ! I have heard 100 

O blushing flowers of Krumley ! 254 

O fair and stately maid, whose eyes 199 

Of a' the airts the wind can blaw 82 

Of all amusements for the mind 232 

Of all the thoughts of God that are 190 

Oft has it been my lot to mark 64 

Of them who, rapt in earth so cold 73 

Of this fair volume which we World do 

name 12 

O happiness ! our being's end and aim ! 48 

O happy, happy maid 257 

O, heard ye you pibroch sound sad in the 

gale 138 

O, I hae come from far away 329 

O, it is hard to work for God 239 

O Laily, leave thy silkeu thread 161 

O, Lady Mary Ann looked o'er the castle 

wa' 77 

O Land, of every land the best 257 

O lassie ayont tlie hill ! 270 

Old Tubal Cain was a man of might 218 

O Love Divine, of all that is 308 

O lull me, lull me, charming air 26 

O Mary, at thy window be ! 82 

O Mary, go aiid call the cattle liome 249 

O may I join the choir invisible 248 

Once, in the flight of ages past 135 

Once this soft turf, this rivulet's sands 189 

One day, nigh wearv of the irksome way . . 8 

One day to Helbeck I had strolled 118 

One sweetly welcome thought 256 

One word is too often profaned 128 

On thy fair bosom, silver lake 155 

Open the temple-gates unto my love 8 

O Saviour ! whose men^y, severe in its kind- 
ness 178 

O, sing unto my roundelay ! 79 

O stream descending to the sea 243 

O, sweet and fair ! O, rich and rare ! 274 

O that those lips had language ! Life has 

passed 69 

O thou, great Friend to all the sons of men 239 

O tliou who dry'st the mourner's tear ! 124 

O, timely hap)iy, timely wise 177 

O unseen Spirit ! now a calm divine 175 

Our ."\lary liket weel to stray 169 

Out of tlie clover and blue-eyed grass 316 

Out upon the unknown deep 250 

Over hill, over dale 16 

Over the mountains 19 

Over the mountain wave, see where they 

come 168 

Over the river they beckon to me 277 

O, waly, waly up the bank 76 

O, weel may the boatie row 77 

O, what will a" the lads do 121 

O, why should the spirit of mortal be proud ? 149 

O yet we trust that somehow good 197 

O, voiuig Lochinvar is come out of tlie 

west 104 

Pack clouds away, and welcome day 26 



346 



INDEX OF FIEST LINES. 



Pause not to dream of the future before us 175 
Pipe, little minstrels of the waning year. . . 297 

Prayer is the soul's sincere desire 186 

Put the broidery-frame away 191 

Queen, and huntress, chaste and fair 18 

Quiet from God ! It cometh not to still . . 244 

Renienilier us poor Mayers all ! 20 

King, sing! ring, sing! pleasant Sabbath 
bells ! 284 

Saith tlie white owl to the martin folk .... 314 

Sfe, fri.Mi this i-ountt-rfeitofhim 231 

Scii.l a.iwn tliy wiii-ed angel, God ! 179 

Sen-ii.-, I fold Miy liands and wait 327 

Sliall I tell you wlioin I love? 25 

She doth tell me where to borrow 34 

" She is dead ! " they said to him. " Come 

away " 317 

She 's gane to dwall in lieaven. my lassie .. 145 

She smiles and smiles, and will not si-h. .. 2G6 

She stood alone amidst tlio April liclds 291 

She stood breast high amid tlie corn 161 

She stood in the harvest-field at noon 271 

She walks in beauty, like the night 125 

She was a phantom of delight 100 

She wearies with an ill unknown 252 

Silent nymph, with curious eye ! 54 

Sitting all day in a silver mist 327 

Slave of the dark and dirty mine ! 90 

Slayer of winter, art thou here again ? 297 

Sleep on, my love, in thy cold bed 28 

Sleep, sleep to-day, tormenting cares 74 

Slowly, by God's hand unfurled 260 

Snow was glistening on the mountains, but 

the air was that of June 230 

So sweet, so sweet the roses in their blow- 
ing 291 

Spring, with that nameless pathos in the 

air 311 

St. Agues' Eve, — ah, bitter chill it was I .. 129 

Steer hither, steer your winged pines 25 

Stern daughter of the voice of God ! 102 

Still sits the school-house by the road 215 

Still to be neat, still to be drest 19 

Strike the loved harp ; let the prelude be. . 339 

Success had made him more than king 313 

Sure, to the mansions of the blest 137 

Sweet Day, so cool, so calm, so bright 31 

Sweetest of all childlike dreams 215 

Sweet is the scene when virtue dies ! 74 

Sweet-scented flower ! who 'rt wont to 

bloom 92 

Sweet-voiced Hope, thy fine discourse 241 

Sweet was the sound, when oft, at even- 
ing's close 65 

Sweet wind, fair wind, where have you 

been ? 337 

Tell me not, in mournful numbers 209 

Tell me not, sweet, I am unkind 30 

Ten years ! — and to my waking eye 265 

That house's form within was rude and 

strong 9 

That regal soul I reverence, in whose eyes. 241 
That time of year thou mayst in me be- 
hold 17 

The Assyrian came down like the wolf on 

the fold 125 

The bard has sung, God never formed a 

soul 154 

The birds, when winter shades the sky, . .. 165 



The birds must know. 'VTho wisely sings . 2!)5 
The conference-meeting through at last ... 285 
The cui-few tolls the knell of parting day . . 60 
The curtains were half drawn, the floor 

was swept 272 

The day is ended. Ere I sink to sleep .... 298 
The day was dark, save when the beam . . . 142 

The fairest action of our human life 13 

The frugal snail, with forecast of repose. . . 120 

The glories of our blood and state 28 

The golden sea its mirror spreads 244 

The gowan glitters on the sward 86 

The grass hung wet on Rydal banks 260 

The island lies nine leagues away 185 

The Jackdaw sat on the Cardinal's chair. . . 150 
The Jester shook his head and bells, and 

leaped upon a chair 293 

The leaves have fallen from the trees 268 

The lift is high and blue 250 

The Lord descended from above 3 

The Lord my pasture shall prepare 47 

The melancholy days are come, the saddest 

of the year 188 

The midges dance aboon the burn 88 

The music-lesson of Koung-tsen the wise... 331 

The night is come ; like to tlie day 29 

The night was dark, though soniftimes a 

faint star 328 

The night was made for coolin- sluule 287 

Tlie old mayor clinilied the liuUry tower ... 280 
The perfect sight of dutv; thought which 

moulds 320 

The pilgrim and stranger, wlio, through the 

day 273 

The rain has ceased, and in my room 283 

The rain is o'er. How dense and bright .. 147 

Tliere are gains for all our losses 287 

There are in this loud stniinin- tiih- 178 

There is a land of pure dili-ht 57 

There is no flock, however wutelied and 

tended 210 

There is not in this wide world a valley so 

sweet 124 

There the most dainty paradise on ground. 9 
There was a time when meadow, grove, and 

stream 97 

There was once a gentle time 91 

The rich man's son inherits lands 224 

The salt wind blows upon my cheek 298 

The sea is calling, calling...'. 336 

The seas are quiet when tlie winds give o'er 40 
These, as they change. Almighty Father, 

these 52 

These withei'ed hands are weak 318 

The shadows lay along Broadway 172 

The sky is thick upon the sea 287 

The soleum wood had spread 255 

The sparrow sits and sings, and sings 296 

The splendor falls on castle walls 199 

The sun is warm, the sky is clear 127 

The thoughts are strange that crowd into 

my brain 155 

The time so tranquil is and clear 10 

The tree of deepest root is found 73 

The weather-leech of the topsail shivers ... 311 

The western waves of ebbing day 105 

The wild November comes at last 287 

The wind ahead, the billows high 240 

The winds that once the Argo bore 289 

The wind was whisiiering to the vines 305 

The word of the Lord by night 201 

The world is too much with us ; late and 

soon 103 

They are all gone into the world of light . . 33 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 



347 



They gave the whole long day to idle 

laughter. 303 

They sat and combed their beautiful hair. . 292 
They that have power to hurt and will do 

none 17 

Thine eyes still shone for me, though far. . 200 

Think me not uiil<iiid and rude U)9 

This is till' slii|. .11' |.i'.iil, wliicli, poets fain 223 
This iiinimim-. tmirly rapt with liolytire. .. 19 
This niil\- '^i-.iiit iiir, tlial iiiv iiH-aus may lie 40 

Tlinii art, (I C,n,\ : thf lit.' ail. I li-lit 124 

Th<.ii l.l..,s,.iii l.ri-lil with aiitnniii dew... 189 

Tli.ai Cra.a. DiviiH', .•ii.ar.lin^ all 245 

Tli.aii^ht is .!,•.. p,.,- than all siM-LTli 234 

Tli.ai hast su..rii l.y tliy (iod, my Jeanie.. 145 
Ti.ju liim. lint; ^fii'i "'th lessening ray ... . 83 

TTi.iu siim.M i.\ th.' uh'aiiiing isles 283 

TIkiu, who.li.lst St. ...]> below 325 

Three fishers went sailing out into the west 249 
Three Poets, in three distant ages born ... 46 
Threescore o' nobles rade up the king's ha' 78 
Three years she grew in sun and shower . . 100 
Thrice liap])y she that is so well assured... 7 
Tliy banks were bonnie, Yarrow stream.. . 75 

Tiger ! Tiger ! burning bright 85 

Till the slow daylight pale 272 

'T is a story told by Kalidasa 334 

'T is the middle of niglit by the castle clock 110 

To fair Fidele's grassy tomb 63 

To him who in the love of Nature holds. . . 187 

Toll for the brave ! 69 

Too late I stayed, forgive the crime 89 

Touch us gently, Time ! 179 

'T was when the wan leat' frae the birk- 

tree was fa'in 182 

Twelve years are gone since Matthew Ivce. 185 

Two dark-eyed maids, at shut of day 190 

Two wandering angels, Sleep and Death. .. 232 
Two worlds there are. To one our eyes we 

strain 276 

Under the greenwood-tree 16 

Unto the glory of thy Holy Name 39 

Up on the breezy headland the fisherman's 

grave they made 334 

Upon the white sea-sand 184 

Veneraous thorns that are so sharp and keen 4 

■Walking thus towards a pleasant grove.. . . 29 

Was it the chime of a tiny bell 157 

We are all liere 169 

We count the broken lyres that rest 220 

We left the fity, street and square 335 

We knew it wo'uld rain, for all the morn.. . 283 

What ails this heart o' mine? 75 

What is it fades and tlickers in the tire 275 



Wliat ! our petitions spumed ! The prayer 

What was he doing, tlie great god Pan 

When all is done and said 

When coldness wraps this sutl'ering clay .. 

Whene'er a noble deed is wrought 

When Freedom from her mountain height. 

When God at first made man 

When I consider how my light is spent . .. 

When I have said my quiet say 

When in disgrace with fortun'e and men's 

eyes 

Wlien Israel, of tlie Lord beloved 

When love with uncontined wings 

When maidens sucli as Hester die 

When marshalleil nn tlir ni-hflv jilain 

When on my ear y.air l..ss uas'knelled.... 

When the grass sliall . ..\ ii lu.' 

When the sheep ai.. m the fauld, and the 

Whentdthi-,^. ^si.Mi, .if sweet silent thought 
Where d.i.s ( ii. uin-taiice end, and Provi- 
dence, where l)e;^iiis it? 243 

Whei-e honor or where conscience does not 

liind 41 

Wheie the bee sucks, there lurk 1 16 

Where the Great Lake's sunny smiles 212 

Where the remote Bermudas ride 35 

Whether on Ida's shady brow 86 

While sauntering through the crowded 

street 309 

Whilst Thee I seek, protecting Power 136 

Whither, midst falling dew 187 

Whoe'er she be 29 

Who knoweth life but questions death .... 276 
Why should I, with a mournful, morbid 

spleen 309 

Why thus longing, thus forever sighing 261 

With blackest mo.ss the flower-plots ]05 

With deep affection 171 

With fingers weary and worn 160 

With how sad ste])s, O Moon ! thou elimb'st 

the skies 6 

Witliin his sober realm o. leafless trees.... 279 

Within the sunlit forest 142 

Wouldst thou hear what man can say 19 

Years, years ago, ere yet my dreams 1C3 

Ye banks and braes and streams around. . . 82 

Ye distant spires, ye antique towers 62 

Ye golden lamps of heaven, farewell 58 

Ye say they all have passed away 200 

Yes, faith is a goodly anchor 227 

You knew, — who knew not Astroidiel ? 7 

You lay a wreath on murdered Lincoln's 

bier 324 

You meaner beauties of the night 13 

You say, but with no touch of scorn ■ 197 



INDEX 

After Death 


OF SUBJECTS. 


1 

Page 
... 199 


Page 


Bugle Snug 


Again 


274 


Burns 

Bust of Dante, On a 


... 165 
... 231 


Althea To 


30 




..241, 298 

108 

16 


Ambition 

Amiens's Snu"- 


Campanile de Pisa 

Cana 

Careless Content 


... 230 

... 246 

... 61 

. 51 










An Kjiistle to the Countess of Cuniber- 


Celinda 

Chameleon, The 

Charity 

Chase, The 

Childe's Destiny, The 

Choir, The Old-fashioned 

Christabel 

Christmas Hymn 

Cliuivl, (latr, Attiie '.....'. 

Climlaiiu: 

Columbine To the Painted ... 


... 29 
... 64 
... 273 

... 153 

... 304 
... 110 
... 238 
... 107 
... 195 
... 294 
176 


Au'i-lic M iiiisf rv 


7 


Angel's Visit, An. . .' .'. 

Aiiology, The 

Ariel's Song 

Artist The 


144 

271 

199 

..... 16 

9(3(5 


" A Tribute to a Servant," From 

At !*ea 


235 

"^7 






Autumn, A still Day in 

Avoea, The Vale of 

A wet Sheet and a flowing Sea 

Azrael 


233 

124 

144 

313 








250 


Ball \fter the . . 


909 








34 






Concha 

Confucius, The Music-Lesson of. 

Con-ress, To.... 


... 299 
... 331 

... 158 
. . . 10 


Balquhither The Braes o' 


88 


Bnttle-Field, The 








Begone Dull Care ' 


20 




TAt 


Bells, The 






Bermudas, The 


35 




... 294 






Crickets, The 

Cuckoo, To the 

Cupid grown careful 

Cycle, A 


... 194 
... 297 
75, 100 
... 91 
... 339 


Bi'tlililii-iii I'lic Star of .. 


191 

93 


Bin.,-,, nu tl,.' Rhine 

Binh Stream 


173 

315 


Blaekbird, The 








Daffodils, To 


. . . 30 
3'^9 


Blossoms, To 31 

Blur :,i,a tlir Crav. The 326 

Boniiir (Mo,„. cnni.bell 76 

Boston llvnn, 201 

'■ Botliie of Tober-Navuolieh," From the. . . 243 

Bower of Bliss, The 9 

"Break break break'" - iQfi 


Dane, The Burial of the 


... 2(;i 














Dead' who have died in the Lord, The.. . 

Death and the Youth 

Death of Dr Levett On the 


... 89 
... 254 
... 59 


Brides of Quair. The Ballad of the . . 
Biiil 'e of Si>'hs On the 


310 

306 


Death the Leveller 


. 28 * 


Brookside The .. . . 


... . ISO 


Death, The Secret of 


...317 • 


Brou^h Bells 


lis 




... 249 









INDEX OF SUBJECTS. 



349 



Defiance, The Soul's 148 

Definitions 320 

Desfi-iiition of siu-li a one as lie would 

lov... A 4 

Dirknis ill Camp 301 

DillVvciit I'oiiits of View 314 

Diruv lor l-i,\r]r 16 

Dir-f fnr a Sol, Hit 290 

Diruf in (;vii, Incline C3 

I)o.ir.-.tfi.,llM. 2.S5 

Dorutliy (i 219 

Doubt 107 

Down tlie Slope 276 

Drivinj^ Home tlie Cows 316 

Duddon, To the Eiver 103 

Duty, Ode to 102 

Each and All 200 

Edoni o' Gordon 22 

Election, Tlie Eve of. 216 

Elegy 28 

Elegy on Captain Matthew Henderson .... 84 

Elegy written in a Country Churchyard.. . . 60 

Epitaph, A Bard's 83 

Epitaiih on Elizabeth L. H 19 

Epithalaniium 15(3 

Epithalainiuni, From the 8 

EiTand, The «oul's 5 

Eternal Light 260 

Eton College, Ode on a distant Prospect of 62 

Eva. To 19i) 

Evelyn Hope 203 

Evening Hymn 29 

Evening, Ode to 64 

Evening Song 177 

Eventide 258 

Faces, The old familiar 120 

Fair and Unworthy 26 

Faith 175 

Family Meeting, The 169 

Farewell to the Fairies 20 

Fate 318 

Fern, The Petrified 318 

Field Preaching 256 

Fireside, By the 275 

Fishers, The Three 249 

Flag, The American 156 

Flowers, The Death of the 188 

Flower, The 31 

Fly to the Desert 123 

For one that hears himself much praised . . 33 

Forest Worship 142 

Forever with the Lord 135 

Friend Sorrow 278 

Fringed Gentian, To the 189 

Funeral, The Fisherman's 334 

Garden Song 198 

Garden, Thoughts in a 34 

Gate, Before the 303 

Geneva, The Lake of. 126 

Genevieve 108 

Ghost at Noon, A 142 

Glenara 138 

Glenlogie 78 

Gnome, The Green 2S4 

God knoweth 307 

God, The Kingdom of 241 

God, The Love of. 245 

God, The Will of 239 

Gold Coin, Ode to an Indian 90 

Good Morrow 26 



Gowan glitters on the Sward, The S6 

Grongar Hill 54 

Had I a Heart for Falsehood framed 79 

Happiness 4s 

Hark ! hark ! the Lark ](j 

Hawthorne 911 

Heaith,A ;;;:;:; Igs 

Heart, The Memory of the 156 

Heavenly Land, The 57 

Heaven, The Present 1V6 

Heaven, There was Silence in 1;:6 

Herb Rosemary, To the 9j 

Hereafter 310 

Heritage, The '. 224 

Her last Poem 255 

Hermit, The 72 

Hester i;o 

He that loves a rosy Cheek 25 

Highland Mary 82 

House in the Meadow, The 290 

Housekeeper, The 120 

How near to Good is what is Fair 19 

Hymn 47, 146, 175 

Hyiiui, A 62 

Hymn before Sunrise, in the Vale of Cha- 

mouni , 109 

Hymn for the Mother 270 

Hymn of Nature 102 

HvHiii of tlie Hebrew Maid 107 

Hymn 011 tli<_- Nativity 35 

Hymn to Christ 325 

Hyiiiu to the Flowers 140 

Ico7ioclast, The 258 

If thou wert by my Side 143 

Illness, Written after Recovery from a Dan- 
gerous 90 

I '11 never love thee more 28 

Inclicape Rock, The 117 

Indian Names 20O 

In June 291 

In Memoriam 340 

Inner Calm, The 247 

In Pi'ison 39 

In School-Days 215 

Inspiration 236 

In the Defences 2SS 

In the Mist 327 

In the Sea 298 

Intimations of Immortality 97 

Inward Music .' 173 

Irish Emigrant, The iu3 

Isaac Ashford si) 

Island, The 185 

Italian Song ,si 

Italy. A Prophecy 339 

" It IS more blessed " 259 

" I will abide in thine House " 277 

I would not live alway 162 

Jeanie MoiTison 159 

Jester's Sermon, The 293 

Jesus, Lover of my Soul 58 

John Davidson 78 

Judge not 278 

July Dawning 335 

Keith of Ravelston 257 

Kindred Hearts 154 

Knowing 234 

Krundey 254 

Labor 175 



350 



INDEX OF SUBJECTS, 



Lady Anne Hamilton, To the 89 

Lady Barlmia 264 

Lady Mary Ann 77 

Lament 137 

Lament for Astropliel (Sir Philip Sidney). . 7 

Lament for Flodden 8S 

Land o' the Lea!, The 80 

Landward 287 

Laus Deo ! 216 

Lay of the Imprisoned Huntsman 105 

Leader, The Lost 207 

Lent, To keep a true 31 

Liberty 41 

Life 75 

Lincoln, Abraham 324 

Lincolnshire, The High Tide on the Coast of 280 

Lines to my Motlier's Picture 69 

Lines written in Richmond Churchyard, 

Yorl<shire 93 

Listening for God 307 

Lochinvar, Young 104 

Lord UUiu's Daughter 139 

Losses 1S4 

Loss of the Royal George 6:) 

Love 259 

Love and Friendsliip 165 

Love Divine, all Love excelling 58 

Lovers, Tlie Puiitan 302 

Lover, The 253 

Love, The Burial of. 190 

Love will And out the Way 19 

Liieasta, To 30 

Lucy 'sFlittin' 182 

Maidenhood 209 

Majesty of God 3 

Man, The Last 138 

March 297 

Mariana .' 195 

Mariner's Hymn 148 

Mariner's \\ ife. The 71 

Marriage .... 154 

Mary in Heaven, To 83 

Mary Morison 82 

Master's Touch, The 247 

Match, A 286 

May 155 

May- Day Song 20 

Mazzini 304 

Meeting, The Quiet 319 

Melanie, From 172 

Memory 190 

Memory, A 100 

Men of Old, The 180 

Midwinter 320 

Milton's Prayer in Blindness 237 

Mind, The Ijninortal 126 

Mine Own 333 

Ministry, A Bird's 321 

Minstrel's Song in Ella, The 79 

Mont Blanc 126 

Morning 177 

Morning Hymn 46 

Morning Meditations 100 

Morning Street, Tlie 328 

Moses, The Burial of. 237 

Mother, To a Bereaved- 137 

Mountains, The 262 

Mummy, Address to an EgyiJtian 141 

Muses, To the 86 

Music 26 

Musical Insti-ument, A 193 

My Birthday 214 

My Life is like the Summer Rose 152 



My Mind to me a Kingdom is 15 

My old Kentucky Nurse 3u3 

Mysteries of Proviilence 71 

Myth, A 250 

My Times are in tliy Hand 246 

Nature, The Lessons of 12 

Nature, The noble IS 

Nearer Home 256 

Nearer, my God, to thee . •. 245 

Never again 287 

New England Spring 224 

New Sinai, The 242 

Niagara, The Fall of 155 

Night and Death 89 

Night, The mid Hour of 124 

No Age content with his own Estate 3 

Not ours the Vows 144 

November 287 

Nymph's Reply, The 5 

Of a' the Airts the Wind can blaw 82 

0/ Myself 40 

O Lassie ayont the HUl ! 270 

Old Age and Death 40 

O may I join the Choir Invisiole ! 248 

One Word is too often pi'ofaued 128 

Oriental Idyl, An 202 

O Saviour ! whose Mercy 178 

O Thou who dry'st the Mourner's tear 124 

Our Heroes 289 

Our Mary 169 

Outward Bound 250 

Over the River 277 

O, why should the Spirit of Mortal be proud 149 

Painter who pleased Nobody and Everybody, 

The 50 

Palm and the Pine, The 181 

Pan in Wall Street 285 

Paraphrase of Psalm XXIII 47 

Parson, Character of a Good. 46 

Passing away 157 

Paul Revere's Ride 207 

Peace 257 

Petition to Time, A 179 

Picture of Peele Castle in a Storm, On a. . . 101 

Pilgrim Song 163 

Pilgrim, Tlie 5 

Pirate, The 185 

Piscataqua River 283 

Pleasure mixed with Pain .- 4 

Poet of To-Dav, The 233 

Portrait of Rei'l Jacket, On a 163 

Prayer 39, 135 

Prayer in Sickness, A 179 

Prayer, The Universal 4S 

Pre-existence 309 

Primrose, To an Earlv 02 

Problem The '. 200 

Prophecv, The Souls 202 

Psalm of Life, A 20.) 

Puck, The Fairy to 16 

Qua Cursum Ventus 244 

Queen of Bohemia, To his Mistress, tlie.. . . 13 
Quiet from God 244 

Rabbi Ben Ezra 204 

Rain, After the 283 

Rain, Before the 2S3 

Ready 321 

Reason 46 

, From the 146 



INDEX OF SUBJECTS. 



351 



Resignation 39, 210 

Rest 32 

Revenge of Injuries 13 

Rheims, The .lackdaw of 150 

Ri.hrs.Tlie linns,, of 9 

Riyht must uiii, The 239 

Rivei-.s, All the 306 

Robin Uoo.Uill, ,\y 21 

Robinson of Leydeii 221 

Rocivy Mountains iu Winter, after many 

Years, On leercissing tlie 335 

Royalty 241 

Ruth 161 

Sabbath, The 174 

Saint Agnes, The Eve of 129 

Santa Filomena 211 

Schoolmistress, The 69 

Sea Dirge, A 16 

Sea-Limits, Tlie 295 

Search after God.. 26 

Seen and Unseen 240 

Seneca Lake, To 155 

Sennacherib, The Destruction of 125 

Serenade, A 105 

Settler, The 234 

Seven times Four 282 

Seven times Seven 282 

Shandon, The Bells of 171 

Shay, TheOne-Hoss 221 

Shepherd-Boy, The 253 

Shepherd to his Love, The i)assionate 4 

She 's gane to dwall in Heaven 145 

She walks in Beauty. 125 

She was a Phantom of Delight 100 

Shirt, The Song of the 160 

Sic Vita 27 

Siren's Song, The 25 

Sir John Moore, The Burial of 152 

Sisters, The 254 

Skylark, To a 127 

Sleep and Death 232 

Sleep, The 190 

Sleep, To 103 

Sleepy Hollow 235 

Small Beginnings 21S 

Soldier's Return, The 87 

Song 25, 49, 105, 161, 313 

Song, A 33.8 

Song for Saint Cecilia's Day, 1687 46 

S ng of a Fellow-Worker 337 

Song of Hesperus 18 

Song of Trust, A 308 

Sonnet 168 

Sonnets 6, 17 

Soul, The 11 

Soul, The Sabbath of the 74 

Soul, The Upright 269 

Sower, The 329 

Spectre Horse, The 186 

Spirits, Unseen 172 

Spring in Carolina . 311 

Spring, The Late 291 

Stanzas 117 

Stanzas virritten in Dejection near Naples.. 127 

Statue, The 326 

Stream of Life, The 243 

Strip of Blue, A 274 

Submission 296 

Summer Day, A 10, 295 

Summer Days 183 

Summer Shower, After a 147 

Summons, The Fisherman's 336 

Sunflower. The 272 



Sunlight and Starlight 277 

Sunset, The Golden 244 

Survivors, The 298 

Swallow, The Departure of the. 182 

Sweet Home 163 

Tacking Ship off Shore 311 

Take thy auld Cloak about thee 24 

Temple, The Living 219 

Tlianatopsis 187 

Tlie Barring o' the Door 24 

The Boatie rows 77 

The Chambered Nautilus 223 

The closing Scene - 279 

The common Lot 135 

" The Deserted Village," From 65 

The Evening Cloud 146 

The Friar of Orders Gray 07 

The Good Man 13 

The Grave by the Lake 212 

The larger Hope 197 

The Midges dance aboon the Burn 88 

The Rapture of Kilmeny 121 

" The Rivulet," From 190 

The sweet Neglect 19 

Tliey are all gone 33 

Thou art, O God 124 

Thought 3 

Thou hast sworn by thy God 145 

Thine Eyes still shone 200 

Tibbie I'nglis 181 

Tiger, The 85 

To-Day and To-Morrow 212 

Too Late 250 

Touchstone, The 217 

Trosachs, The 105 

Trust 179 

Tubal Cain 218 

Twenty-three, On arriving at the Age of. . . 38 

Two Moods 337 

Una and the Lion 8 

Unawares 305 

Under Milton's Picture 46 

Under the Greenwood-Tree 16 

Unseen 318 

Up Above 247 

Urania 266 

Urvasi 334 

Vanishers, The 215 

Venice, Sunrise in 314 

Vespers 273 

Violets, Under the 223 

Virtue 31 

Virtuous, The Death of tlie 74 

Vision, A 83 

Voiceless, The 220 

Voyagers, The 262 

Waiting 316, 327 

" Walker in Nicaragua," From 313 

Waly, waly, but love be bonny 76 

Warnings, The three 73 

Waterfowl, To a 187 

Waters, The Meeting 273 

Way to sing. The 295 

Way, the Truth, and the Life. The 239 

We are Brethren a' 184 

Weary 272 

What ails this Heart o' mine ?. 75 

What is the Use ? 321 

When Maggie gangs away 121 

When the Grass sliail cover me 273 



352 



INDEX OF SUBJECTS. 



Wliilst thee I seek 136 

White Underneath 307 

Why thus longing ? 251 

Wish, A 81 

Wishes 29 

Wishing 232 

Witness, The Sure 255 

Woman 252 

AVonian's Love, A 303 

Woman, The true 7 

Woods, From the 309 



Wordsworth 260 

Word, Tlie Last 266 

Work 337 

World, The 103 

World, The Other 248 

Worlds, The Two 270 

Yarrow Stream , 75 

Yarrow, The Braes of 66 

Yarrow unvisited 101 

Ye golden Lamjis of Heaven, farewell 1 . . . . 58 



THE END. 



Cambridge : Electrotyped and Printed by Welch, Bigelow, & Co 



LHMy'l2 



